


Mortalem

by Glinka



Series: The Lark [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angel!Au, Blood, Character Death, Drama, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Heaven & Hell, M/M, Religious Content, Slow Burn, Wingfic, badass angels, demon assassins, heaven!au, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-16 07:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 42,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7257841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glinka/pseuds/Glinka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing he remembered was the heart monitor flat-lining.</p><p>When he opened his eyes again, a glowing man with feathery wings and an impeccably pressed Ralph Lauren suit was looking back at him, reaching for his hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pushing up Pansies

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_"That they all might be damned who believed not the truth, but had pleasure in unrighteousness."_

_-_  Thessalonians 2:12 

 

 

 

Merlin was dead.

 

All right, at least there wasn’t much else that could explain the heavenly presence standing in front of him.

The man’s hair shone a burnished gold; the contours along his jaw and nose were incredible, close to that of a Roman god’s, as Merlin decided then and there, and the barely-there smile did things to Merlin that certainly weren’t of the mortal plane.  

Merlin, eloquent even in death, took one look at the man in the suit and—

“Um… I suppose I’m dead then?” He mentally kicked himself for not thinking of something a little better than, _I suppose I’m dead then?_

That was when he realized: He could hear. His ears were functioning perfectly. That was new.

The man only smiled wider, chuckling, and all the air left Merlin’s lungs. His lungs -- which were also functioning properly again. Merlin could  _breathe._ The man's laugh sounded like music, a string instrument being plucked gently and vibrating with warm undertones, sweet but not excessive. Merlin was stunned into silence. He took a moment to actually look down at the floor, then to the ceiling, and quickly discovered that the surroundings were….

They were posh as hell.

Or… Heaven?

He’d really like to know _where_ he was. Merlin spared another glance down at the floor, which appeared to be made from a solid slab of marble, polished so well that he could see his own reflection. He stared.

Merlin looked… different.

The last time he’d looked in a mirror Merlin had been gravely ill, feverish and pallid except for the patches of red on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, brought on by hot flashes; the doctors told him it was an acute viral infection, spurred on by complications in his lungs, which later spread to his ears (on account of a secondary infection, naturally).

It had all started as a silly little cold, that was all.

But – no, that wasn’t all it was, was it?

Apparently it was much, much worse than that. And because his mother, a single woman with the obstinacy of a politician juxtaposed by the tenderness of a wild flower, couldn’t afford to pay for all the necessary medications in time – not with her small salary as a teacher – and as a consequence couldn’t do as much as she wished she had when Merlin’s health rapidly declined. They were just going to have to postpone further treatments, that’s what they said…

It looked as if they'd postponed the treatments a little too long.

Looking at his reflection now, though? He looked to be in perfect health. Peak physical condition, complete with rosy pink dabbling his cheeks in lieu of feverish patches, and a jaw that wasn’t quite as sunken as he remembered, last he checked. And brighter eyes, sans shadows. He still looked thin, but he didn’t look like the sickly kind of thin. Skinny but strong, healthy and well.

He felt good. _Great_ even, and it was nice to know that he looked as good as he felt.

So that was that, then.

Merlin was dead.

It was the most logical answer; this was way too vivid to be a lucid dream -- fever-induced, drug-induced, or otherwise. Unless you counted death-induced, but this probably just counted as death, plain and simple. Not a dream.

And now, here he was, in… the Château de Versailles.

That was certainly what it looked like to Merlin, who remembered going with his mum at age eight to France on a trip to visit some relatives. The Château had been grandiose, breathtaking with its crystal chandeliers and sprawling gardens outside, artwork hanging on display in the halls next to gilded statues and tall glass windows.

Here, the décor was much the same, sumptuous and warmly lit, with perhaps a few extra pillars of marble towering over him.

The ceiling was higher than the Château as well; so high, in fact, that when Merlin tried to look all the way up he began to feel dizzy. He wondered if perhaps heaven (if this _was_ heaven) was actually just a super-sized version of the Hall of Mirrors in the Château de Versailles. 

A throat cleared behind him.

The noise echoed in the empty space and Merlin quickly turned his gaze back to the beautiful man sporting the spiffy two-button Ralph Lauren suit, complete with polished gold cuff-links and a crimson necktie hanging just a little askew, but unbelievably perfect as it was.

Merlin had to assume the man was an angel. It was possible that he could have made such an inference just by looking at the man’s celestial face and chiseled _everything._ This man could model pillow cases and still look like a Dior model straight off the runway.

In the end, though, it was the enormous pair of wings that tipped Merlin off.

The feathery things must have spanned at least eight feet in either direction, they were _massive_ , coated in silky-looking layers of lustrous white feathers that were probably just as nice to be wrapped in as they were for taking flight.

The man finally spoke.

“I’m meant to tell you, this is first stage of the rest of your afterlife." He didn't talk to Merlin with much excitement, but there was a reasonable amount of warmth. “This is where we greet all our newcomers. Welcome, Merlin.” Apparently, something on Merlin’s expression had the man worried, because the next thing he said was, “There’s no need for the concern, I’ve been sent with orders to welcome you." He waved a carefree hand about in the air, like he was brushing off the words. Like they weren't important. Merlin’s eyebrows shot up. On _orders_ to welcome him?

How perfectly cheery.

“I’ll be showing you around, making sure you’re comfortable. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to ask.”

“Sure,” Merlin said immediately, before he pressed his lips together in thought. The man waited patiently for him to say something more. “I know where I am," Merlin said. "I think. I mean," he gestured around, "it's pretty easy to guess. My question is _why_ am I here?”

“In Heaven, you mean?” the man said, confirming Merlin’s fears, his smile never wavering. “It was His will.”

“Will."

"Yes."

"Whose will?”                                                                     

“You will find that out for yourself. In time,” the man answered simply.

“I mean, it’s just that I’m… and this is… I mean, isn’t it a bit _much_ for me to…?”

“Is it a bit much for you to have found your way into Heaven," the Angel answered, "when the life you led didn’t exactly equate to that of some of the greatest peacemakers known to humanity? No."

Merlin wasn't impressed with the answer.

The man sighed. "While it appears that your mortal life never likened to that of Gandhi or Mother Teresa, you are still welcome here regardless.”

Merlin decided it would be in his best interest not to press further. He was in _Heaven,_ after all. Even if he was dead, and being dead perhaps wasn’t the greatest thing to happen to him today, it was still probably better not to push his luck.

“Right. So what’s your name?” asked Merlin.

The glossy, feathery wings behind the appallingly gorgeous man in the suit, while not unfolding, did twitch, as if whatever Merlin had said was ruffling the man’s (literal) feathers.

After an unhurried pause, he answered, “My name is Arthur. And you, I’m afraid, are Merlin.” He cocked an eyebrow in an arrogant display that had Merlin heated for no other reason that the fact that this man, _angel_ though he may be, was quickly revealing himself as something of a prat. “Now if there are any further questions… no?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Thought not. Come,” he motioned for Merlin to follow, turning with a sort of subtle grace to take the lead as he strolled across the glistening slab of marble, the light from the chandeliers catching the gentle golds and yellows in his hair at all the right angles.

He seemed perfectly at ease in the environment, and rightly so, Merlin assumed, considering that this man couldn’t really be a man at all. He was dealing with something on a much larger scale, a much higher level of power. This Arthur, prattish and proud though he was, couldn’t have been human. He was something much more.

And from the way he spoke to the way he walked like he ran the damn world, he was probably a respected figure up here.

Merlin couldn’t do much more than nod at the order and fall into step with the man. Angel. The bloke who wore a nice suit with the air that it was bloody casual Friday, and what must have been Burberry velvet loafers, sported like they were a plain pair of trainers, nothing more. Like it hardly mattered what he wore on his feet, as long as they got him from one place to another. Even the man’s gait suggested to Merlin that he was about to inherit the throne to a vast empire, and it wouldn’t even be the most important thing to happen to him today.

Merlin couldn’t help but fidget before hazarding another question. “So… is this all you do, then?”

The angel, Arthur, spun around, less graceful than anything Merlin had witnessed up until this point, and stared at Merlin. His eyes were wide. Blue. Severe. The pair of wings fluttered with a note more danger than before. “What do you mean, is this _all_ I do?” he asked, voice even.

Undeterred, Merlin tried for a rephrase. “I... well is your only job to show poor dead saps like me around the Upstairs, all day, every day?”

The Angel’s brow furrowed considerably. “You ask a lot of questions,” he said.

It wasn’t too clear if he’d meant to say it aloud. Now he most certainly looked ruffled, and the look in his eye was unmistakable: he wasn’t pleased with this question.

Perhaps he wasn’t used to _being_ questioned. With an imperious cock of his head, he answered tritely, “No, this is not ‘all I do.’ If you really must know, my position here is classified as Rank Two amongst the Heavenly Powers. I’m… how do I put this?” He snapped his fingers like he was trying to think of the best answer for a game of Angel Jeopardy. The glorious set of wings nestled behind him lowered, drooping lazily, and Merlin was momentarily distracted. He couldn't help it. He stared... but just a little.

“Ah, well,” said Arthur, pulling Merlin’s attention away from the wings, “I suppose you could say I’m something of a manager up here, someone who takes orders either directly or secondarily from the Big Man Himself. Mortals would call us Archangels. A term of mortal origin, but nonetheless, those of us Upstairs took a liking to it.”

An Archangel. Merlin – always the opportunist – grabbed another chance to eye the glowing man up and down with a newfound reverence.

What Merlin thought of as a “glow” was really more like a haze, a faint ambience of pure… something. Light, maybe, or something from within, coating Arthur - _Arthur,_  a very posh name, in Merlin's opinion _-_ and making him look like he wasn’t completely there, almost like a hologram, but somehow much more real. 

“The rest of what I do is far, _far_ above your pay grade. Just... follow me. No more questions for now.”

 

**-^i^-**

 

Merlin’s mother always said that, when she died, she wanted very much to come back as a hawk. Merlin wasn’t sure where her belief in reincarnation had come from, as they were very loosely Pagan (and still celebrated Christmas).

While somewhat morbid, Merlin had always loved the idea that, should that day come, he would be able to look to the sky and see a hawk, and know that his mother was always watching over him.

He felt like he should be doubled over with grief now, shouldn't he?

Shouldn't he?

Knowing that he’d passed on before his own mother? Messed up shite like that wasn't supposed to happen. It still happened, yeah, but it  _shouldn't._

And for reasons unknown, Merlin didn’t feel all _that_ bad. Maybe it was because you weren’t supposed to feel like that in Heaven. According to every story about the place, sadness was meant to be nonexistent, replaced by only joy and contentment.

Merlin still couldn’t shake the feeling that he should have, at the very least, gotten to say a proper goodbye.

Life wasn’t fair.

Someone snapped their fingers, startling him out of the reverie.

Arthur chuckled from behind. “So jumpy,” he remarked, amused, for some reason, before he pulled back a chair that hadn’t been there a second ago. “Have a seat.”

Before he knew what was happening, Merlin found himself standing in front of a round, wooden table centered in the middle of the marble floor beneath the largest of the crystal chandeliers. The table had definitely _not_ been there a second ago either.

Another thing that hadn’t been there a moment ago? The group of seven other men in pressed black suits, all with matching crimson ties, standing in a perfect semicircle around the table.

Merlin had only blinked, and there they were. Watching him, perhaps to see what he would do next. Was it some sort of scare tactic? He didn’t jump when they were suddenly just _there,_ appearing in the span of a millisecond or less, but he did take a step back out of pure instinct.

The wood of the table had an unnaturally glossy sheen that practically glowed on its own. On the tabletop, a ream of paper about the length of Merlin’s arm stared back up in vindication. Something about it had Merlin taking a step forward again -- He wasn’t sure he liked that very much.

Suddenly, Arthur was by his side again, holding something just out of Merlin’s periphery.

Merlin was glad to at least have Arthur here. For some reason unbeknownst to Merlin, Arthur was the only one he felt he could trust amidst the seven new faces circling the table, all standing with their wings folded neatly behind them, casting oblong shadows on the floor.

No chairs surrounded the table; the paper was the sole item to mar the glossy surface. So this wasn’t meant to take very long, Merlin could only assume.

“You’ll want to sign this,” the man called Arthur who claimed to be an Archangel jabbed a thumb at the bottom of the immaculate ream of white paper, which was nearly filled from top to bottom with tiny, scrawling text and what Merlin suspected was a lot of angelic legal jargon. He had to squint just to make out the top line. “So that we can confirm you’ve given your full consent to remaining here.”

The Archangel held out the object in his hand closer for Merlin to see: a pen. The entire thing looked like it’d been touched by king Midas – it was pure gold. Or at least, Merlin assumed it was. He was curious to know if the ink was gold as well.

But not curious enough to use the thing. Not just yet.

Merlin pursed his lips, glancing at the heavenly contract, then to the pen. What, did this mean he was handing over his soul or something? Only half-joking, he looked back at Arthur and said, “Thanks, but if it’s all the same, I’d like to speak with a lawyer first.” He did his best not to break eye contact, a challenge dancing in his eyes.

One of the suits behind Arthur snorted, before quickly going silent at the stern look the dark-haired one to his right threw him. Clearly, Arthur was someone who gave off a more sobering aura; neither man (angel?) spoke a word.

Arthur didn’t bat an eye. “We don’t have lawyers up here.” That didn’t seem to provide any sort of comfort for Merlin, who refused to back down from the staring contest until he received a better answer. He tried again. “The whole thing is sound, not even the best mortal lawyer would be able to find a loophole. And rest assured, its sole design is to make sure you are completely at ease up here.” Something in his voice made Merlin relax, almost like he’d been hit with a drugged, very compelling vapor. Arthur appeared to sense it, for he chose that moment to lower his voice and ask, more in earnest, “Will you sign?” The pen was in Merlin’s sight once again.

Merlin bit his lip, considering his options. He knew he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, he really shouldn’t – This was _Heaven_. For the love of all things holy, he’d been granted eternal rest in the best location they had to offer. Most people with even a speck of religion, or even just a certain level of spirituality, were clamoring for a piece of prime realty up here. Some people dedicated their whole lives to being the best they could possibly be, just for a chance at earning eternal happiness after death.

As if to reaffirm such thoughts, Arthur pressed on, “Not just anyone is admitted into Heaven, you know. But of course, we can’t force you to stay.”

“So what you’re saying is, I’m basically a member of a very exclusive country club,” Merlin joked, still not taking the pen. As the seconds dragged by, the angels surrounding the table began to look more noticeably confused.

“So what you’re _saying_ is, you’re basically asking for your membership to be rescinded,” Arthur mocked. While it wasn’t cruel, Merlin still thought it was hardly becoming behavior for an Archangel, of all things. Weren’t they the ones who were supposed to… well, set an example.

Of course, Merlin could hardly say that Arthur was a poor specimen for an Archangel; the man radiated a sort of magnetism, which may or may not have come with the deity-issued rank, and on top of the leader-like charisma that he positively _oozed,_ he was charming and articulate, sharp and focused, perhaps even kind – when he wasn’t talking to Merlin alone, that was. It was upon noticing this that Merlin wondered whether or not such treatment made him special. Or just especially annoying.

With a deep breath, Merlin reached for the gold pen.

His hand stopped short, however, when he reflected back on Arthur’s words. “You can’t force us to stay…” he murmured, “so where else would I go? Hell?” he asked. “You so-called angels would actually let me--”

The other angels in suits cast each other shifty looks.

Arthur shook his head. It was with a heavy sigh that he answered, “Us? Never. But we are permitted to let you roam the earth as a spirit, invisible to mortals and unable to visit us Angels and the rest of the happily deceased up here,” he shrugged, like that little detail couldn’t possibly be of any importance. Which made it all the more important to Merlin. “While it’s not a charmed life -- or so I’ve been told – it _is_ a sight better than Hell.” He smirked, one eyebrow twitching. “But of course, it’s up to you.” His hand never moved an inch, didn’t wave the pen about or move it further away in an attempt to taunt or tempt Merlin. His tone of voice did more than enough.

If staying here meant getting to have an eternal tête-à-tête against this feathery arse with wings, oh, Merlin would  _gladly..._

His mum. His most recent memories before waking up in Heaven came crashing down around him, pressing down on his chest and rendering him silent.

Would his mother ever know what had become of him? That he wasn’t suffering anymore? He wanted to say goodbye, just one last time…

The pressure eased from his chest when Arthur’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Apparently, Arthur could either read minds, or he was a very good judge of body language, because one look at Merlin’s expression seemed enough for him to add, “Your mother is going to be just fine. While I’m afraid the High Throne will not permit the dead to make contact with the living, we do offer to send grievance angels in their stead.”

“Grievance angels?” Merlin’s brow creased.

Arthur made a vague gesture with his hand. “Yes, yes, grievance angels. They’re… well, we always tell people that they’re much like guardian angels. Only… temporary.” He quirked his head to the side. “Their presence emanates a level of comfort for those in mourning, but they don’t remain with the mortal forever. The grieving period normally extends to about four of five months. Six or seven if the death was a tragic one.” So Merlin’s death, then. Perhaps it would be enough to warrant one of these grievance angels to be sent down for his mother.

“Most new arrivals to Heaven choose to have one of our G.A.s sent down either way.”

Merlin nearly laughed out loud when Arthur said “G.A.s.” What was this, a police department? MI-6?

No, of course, he’d forgotten. It was just bloody _Heaven._

A couple of the Angels behind Arthur were beginning to fidget minutely where they stood, which Merlin thought odd, as he had always imagined Angels to be the height of perfection. He didn’t know Angels fidgeted.

One of the suits, a man with curly bronze hair and a neat mustache-beard combination, caught Merlin’s eye for a second and winked.

Merlin startled, just briefly, but the man didn’t come off as a malicious presence to him. Another one of the suited Angels with umber skin, full lips and black hair cropped close to his head, also turned to look in Merlin’s direction and smiled kindly.

So the suits with wings had emotions after all.

Oh, right. They were talking about grievance angels. Tragic deaths.

Merlin’s death _had_ been somewhat tragic. Granted, it wasn’t like a car accident or a murder, not even a terminal illness (well, not the kind that killed you slowly over the course of years, or even months) but really, dead at age twenty-four? Gasping for breath in the arms of his crying mother as she told him how much she loved him? Hearing her say that they were working as fast as they could to help him, just before the infection took his hearing away? Yeah.

Honestly, he’d be feeling like shit, too. He might even ask to extend the… what, the hiring period? He might just ask to extend the hiring period for a “G.A.” on behalf of Hunith. Possibly eight months, maybe even a year. It couldn’t hurt to try; the woman deserved more than words would allow.

“Could I have a minute to process?” Merlin asked, quiet for the moment.

Arthur clicked the pen down and tucked it into the front pocket of his suit jacket. “Of course. Gents, if you don’t mind.” He gave a curt nod to the angels in attendance. One by one, they turned on their heels and vanished from sight. It was unsettling.

Merlin caught Arthur just as the Archangel rolled his eyes. “They’ve always had a flair for showing off. They prefer to look good when they’re all together. That’s my team you just met.”

“Your team.”

“Mmm..” Arthur seemed distracted for a minute as he looked down at the unsigned contract.

 “I want to be an Angel,” said Merlin.

That snapped Arthur out of it quickly. The man snorted so aggressively that is was almost unattractive.

Almost.

“ _Do_ you, now?” he asked. It was obvious he was trying not to laugh, but all things considered he was doing a noble job of trying to hide it.

Merlin shrugged, “What rule in Heaven says I can’t be?”

“Try Clause Two, Section Seven, Verses twenty-one to twenty-three in your contract,” Arthur recited, as though he’d said it all before, many times. “’No mortal’s soul shall be manipulated into that of an immortal being’s. A mortal may only act as host for an immortal who has requested permission to enter the corporeal entity, and only as a temporary vessel.’” He shrugged. “That’s what the contract states, plain as day. It’s all there in black and white.”

“There’ve _got_ to be exceptions though. Right?” Merlin insisted, bouncing on the balls of his feet a little too hopefully. Arthur smiled, like a parent watching their child get that hopeful glint in their eye when begging for a visit to the candy store.

“You think you’re the first to request such a thing?” he asked, with a fraction more kindness than before. He sighed, and turned his gaze away from the contract. Merlin didn’t much feel like looking at it either. “I’m afraid that even if I wanted to, I couldn’t just snap my fingers and grant you a big, ghastly pair of wings. You would either have to endure a stringent set of tests that challenge the very fibre of your being, or you’d have to be born with the predisposition in your veins to, well, be an Angel from the get-go. Like me and the members of my team.”

He shrugged again with a sympathetic cant of his head, as if to say, _that’s just the way it is, mate_.

Merlin quirked an eyebrow, confused. “So you’re saying there are no exceptions.”

Arthur seemed like he was doing his best not to lose patience. With a sigh, he answered, “There are some… mortals, born under the right signs, the right circumstances, who are Chosen to be aids to the Archangels when they pass on to the next life. _Alatum Hominibus:_ the Winged Mortals.” He looked towards the double doors of the hall, standing with stiff grandeur to Arthur’s right. “The creatures are not to be confused with Nephilim, which are half-angel, half-human. Sometimes half-angel and half-demon, and those are especially nasty buggers.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Walk with me, Merlin.”

Merlin shivered when Arthur said his name – it wasn’t that there was anything inherently special in the intonation, nothing out of the ordinary, but Arthur’s voice was like honey when he was trying to be persuasive, and Merlin was learning quickly when these Angels were trying to be slick.

He didn’t hesitate as he followed Arthur.

The tall set of doors opened slowly, all by itself, swinging outwards to reveal an expansive lawn and gardens just up ahead, organized and pruned to within an inch of their life.

Merlin gawked at the sight of so many flowers, some of which he’d never laid eyes on before.

Arthur, on the other hand, appeared to be well-accustomed to the scenery, and stepped outside, down a short set of steps and onto the main pathway, completely paved with smooth, speckled stone.

At closer inspection, Merlin could swear the oval slabs shone like rose quartz. Just to be safe, he assumed it actually was quartz. It wouldn’t be all that surprising in a place like this.

Arthur carried on the conversation as if there had never been a pause, guiding Merlin towards the nearest of the gardens.

“These winged mortals haven’t been seen in centuries. Not since the last war that the Angels were sent to fight, down on earth.” He canted his head towards Merlin. “This was back during the time of Noah, of course. Millennia before you were so much as an idea. And no, don’t get your hopes up; you aren’t one of the _Alatum Hominibus_ , sorry.”

“…So why aren’t there any more of them?” asked Merlin, finding his voice upon taking in the view of the gardens. His heart felt a bit heavy; he really wouldn’t mind having his own pair if wings, like the ones Arthur flaunted like they were nothing special. God, but this stupid creature took his gifts for granted.

Of course, they also looked a little ungainly. No mattered how graceful Arthur was with those things, Merlin suspected he would be much less adroit about keeping his balance underneath the weight if he had a couple of his own.

“The Winged Mortals are only sent when things are dire and help is completely necessary,” said Arthur. “And they are born with their wings. But like I said, the last time we had Winged Mortals was during a time of deep unrest in the mortal world. Don’t look so hopeful, Merlin, the earth isn’t prophesied to be in that sort of danger for a little while longer yet.”

Merlin’s face fell. Arthur saw the look and carried on without saying another word.

The sun way shining, but Merlin couldn't pinpoint where it was in the sky. The light just sort of seemed to come from... everywhere.

Then Arthur was right in front of Merlin, putting a firm hand on his shoulder and when Merlin looked at him, the light cast a halo around him, the way people usually pictured Angels in stories or in Romantic paintings.

Merlin looked back at Arthur, whose lips were turned down with a glimmer of doubt. “I’m sorry. But if there was even a chance of it, we would be getting little mortal fledglings by the dozens already.” The corners of Arthur’s mouth quirked upwards. “Besides, at least we know that your world down there isn’t in any immediate danger, yeah?”

Merlin gave a resolute nod and sighed.

He still didn’t feel like signing anything just yet, but what he did feel like doing was taking a tour of the gardens.

He liked gardens; they gave him happy memories of his mother, how he would come back from Will’s to find her kneeling in the dirt every Saturday afternoon, planting pansies and tulips and chrysanthemums under the gentle heat of the spring sun.

Arthur changed direction without question and led Merlin towards the nearest row of hedges, where the first garden began.

As they passed through the opening in the neatly trimmed hedge, the entire atmosphere felt different. Stiflingly warm air, heady smells with fruity undertones and hints of something herbal, almost medicinal. But not unpleasant in the least.

A few steps more and the temperature dropped to something more comfortable. The flowers changed, the closer they got to them. Where rows of daffodils were, suddenly there sprang up yellow tulips, overpowering the other flowers as soon as Merlin passed in front of the flowerbeds. He tried not to react when more flowers popped out of the ground like time had sped up their life cycles, and pansies, chrysanthemums, and more tulips colored pink and purple came to life before his eyes.

All of his mum’s favorite flowers.

Merlin wouldn’t mind spending his afterlife here, in the gardens.

Everything about the scenery was calming, suited just right for all that Merlin could hope for it to be.

In the center of the square was a crowd of topiaries, lush green bushes and small, leafy trees clipped into different shapes. A hedge with tiny white flowers budding through the leaves was cut into the likeness of the earth itself. Merlin could actually _see_ where continents had been trimmed with such care and detail into the tightly packed leaves. It was striking.

The temperature seemed to be in constant fluctuation, a few degrees warmer here and a couple more degrees cooler there, yet it was never uncomfortable.

Arthur prattled on about how wonderful Heaven would be for Merlin, to always ask an Angel if he had any questions, and to never feel like he should be wanting for anything, much like a used car salesman would try to shove a decent enough used Prius down a potential customer’s throat.

It sounded like he had absolutely no doubt that Merlin would be perfectly content here. Of course, Merlin being the contradictory creature that he was, asked questions whenever he felt the urge. It appeared to puzzle Arthur greatly, which made Merlin enjoy it much more.

Merlin had to wonder… Maybe some people really _did_ consider the idea of wandering around on earth for the rest of eternity, never being seen by others, always yearning for more; Merlin shuddered at the thought. Ghost stories suddenly felt a lot more real.

He didn’t want to become a lost soul, damned to wander around in his old home for the rest of forever, watching his mother grieve for the loss of her only son, or perhaps see her grow old and pass on.

He thought about what it would be like for his own mother to wake up in a different realm, only to find that her son wasn’t there, but down on earth, miserable and alone.

Merlin didn’t doubt for a second that Hunith would opt for wandering the earth with him, instead of choosing eternal bliss in Heaven. He could never do that to his mum. That thought made the decision easier for him.

He stopped, and Arthur sensed that he wasn’t being followed anymore because he paused a moment later and turned, looking at Merlin expectantly.

Merlin was more than a little disappointed when, for no reason whatsoever, Arthur folded up the gorgeous, massive set of wings against his back.

Then, to Merlin’s utter bewilderment, the wings faded completely, leaving not so much as a trace of them behind. Not even a feather. Merlin wasn’t sure if it was an illusion, or if the wings really were gone. He resisted the niggling in his head to just reach out and check…

“Why’d you do that?” he asked, trying not to sound too much like he was complaining, which he was.

Arthur turned to look at him, and shrugged. “Don’t need them right now.” He didn’t seem to feel the urge to explain further. It was only with another meaningful look from Merlin that the Archangel was prompted to elaborate. “The point is that you’ve seen them, so at least you know for a fact that I am what I say I am.”

“…Okay?”

Arthur sighed, sounding weary for someone who, for all intents and purposes, _literally_ lived in Heaven. As if he ever had anything to complain about.

“We used to greet the newly deceased without our wings out, and they’d never believe we were Angels until we whipped out the great buggering things and let them see for themselves.” His nostrils flared, like the very idea bothered him. Merlin frowned.

“What, you don’t like your wings?”

“Of course I do,” said Arthur curtly, “It’s just that they feel a bit… unwieldy at times.” He made a vague gesture in the direction of his back, where the wings had seemingly vanished from existence. “They get in the way. We prefer to let them out when we need to, or when we feel the urge to go for a fly and clear our heads.”

That sounded like a spectacular time to Merlin. But then he remembered with a small pang of disappointment that he was not, in fact, an Angel. Just a very lucky mortal with a golden ticket through the Pearly Gates.

So, no flying for him. Bugger. 

“So guardian angels… those are a thing then, too?” Merlin asked. Arthur took a moment to stop their stroll through the garden, and answered in the affirmative.

“They’re much less common now than they were in the earlier years, as humans continue to make advances in caring for themselves, bigger steps in medicine and technology, making war slightly more isolated than it used to be – towns and cities used to be ransacked quite a bit more frequently, you know.”

“And Archangels, what _exactly_ is their job again?” Merlin continued. “I’ve heard fewer stories about Archangels than I have about guardian angels.”

Arthur, breaking the severe down-to-business façade for the moment, snorted at Merlin’s comment.  Worrying his lower lip with perfectly white, slightly crooked (fantastic) front teeth, he replied, “I will admit, some would say we’ve become a rarefied breed.” Merlin quirked an eyebrow at the idea. Arthur struck up their walk again, half leading, half talking. “Not many people believe in or worship the Archangels as they did for centuries past.”

“You sound bitter.”

“Perhaps.” Arthur brushed off the interruption, although he seemed a little agitated. “But we can’t directly interfere with the beliefs of humans. That’s why it’s called _free will._ As for guardian angels, people still tell stories about them. Parents, mostly, to make their children feel safe, but the belief is still there.” His explanation became even more animated as they continued along past a pristinely pruned row of white roses.

The light perfume from the flowers wafted into Merlin’s nose, effectively distracting him for the better part of a minute, before his attention caught up with Arthur’s spiel again. He was just finished saying how no one had ever heard of the Archangel Jophiel, and how it was perfectly outrageous, as the woman was too much of a sweetheart to be forgotten.

“Mhmm,” Merlin nodded in feigned agreement. Arthur turned to look at the expression on his face. The Archangel didn’t look amused.

“Bored already?”

“What? No, sorry. Just thinking.” Merlin tried for a winning smile.

“So I see,” said Arthur, smirking. His eyes flicked back in the direction of the château. 

After what felt like the space of about ten minutes, but could have been much more or much less, Merlin wasn’t sure how time worked up here, they headed back across the gardens, cutting across the trimmed lawn and smooth stone pathways crisscrossing here and there, finally making a return to the main doors of the château .

 

When they reentered the hall the table was still there. The contract hadn’t moved from its place.

As if on cue, the seven suited angels appeared in a neat semicircle around the table, just as they had before, as Merlin approached the contract with some trepidation.

He turned at the sound of something _click_.

Arthur held the gold pen in his hand, but his expression was more guarded this time. The look on his face was a question as much as a consolation: “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s all right if you don’t.” He didn’t need to speak a word.

But Merlin had made up his mind.

He reached for the pen.

 

 

 

“So… what now?” Merlin asked.

The contract was signed. The ink of Merlin’s messy signature – gold, just like he’d been hoping – was barely beginning to dry, and as soon as he dotted the ‘i,’ the scroll of paper was collected by the curly-haired angel who’d winked at him earlier.

With a flick of the Angel’s wrist, the scroll combusted into a blaze of orange and gold sparks before fizzling out, leaving nothing behind but a memory.

Merlin felt like he’d just watched his soul get handed over to Heaven. He probably wasn’t too far off the mark. When the seven angels around the table backed away and bowed their heads, like this was a sacred moment, Merlin heaved a heavy sigh.

He wasn’t sure how he felt, but he knew he’d prefer this to wandering the earth in perpetual loneliness.

He felt a little dissociated, not entirely there, but he thought he heard himself ask to go back to the gardens.

Arthur obliged, and together they left the doppelganger Hall of Mirrors and the crew of reverent Angels, heading back outside.

 

In the gardens, Merlin felt a little more at ease when he was surrounded by the tulips and sprightly-looking pansies. This whole day was a lot to take in.

He had _died,_ after all.

He was dead, but in a way he’d never felt better. Physically speaking. Not feverish, not nauseous, not even light-headed, although his thoughts certainly felt a bit jumbled up in his head on account of the day’s events.

He’d also never felt worse. He missed him mum and he missed his friends, his home. He missed Will, his best friend whom he hadn’t seen since four months before Merlin kicked the bucket back in hospital.

And then there was the unsettling realization that his body was six feet under somewhere, rotting in the earth.

Or had it been long enough for that? How long had Merlin been dead?

It only felt like it had been a few hours, but now that he wasn’t in the mortal realm, technically speaking, he wondered if time acted differently here.

So, naturally, he asked Arthur, who stood patiently a few feet away, face schooled in a placid expression.

“Time is much the same is it is on earth. You only left the mortal plane a couple hours ago.”

Merlin’s jaw worked; he thought about how much pain his mother must be in right now. Wondered if a funeral was already being planned, wondered what would be read about him in his eulogy, if the neighbors would read about him in the morning paper’s obituary come Sunday, how many people would attend the funeral…

It was too much.

He shoved it all away. He couldn’t hold it in forever, but it hurt less not to think about it right now. It was only fair that he deserved to rest a little.

He asked another question to distract himself. “Does that mean you have night and day here? Are we still in the same galaxy, even?”

Arthur pursed his lips, cocking his head sideways in thought. “Yes and no,” he said, “the sun will go down if you want it to go down, the moon will rise and the sky will darken and be speckled with all the stars you could hope to see, or the sun will shine forevermore if that is what you desire. Remember, this is Heaven.” He waved a hand around vaguely. “Perception is reality – everyone sees what they wish to see. For some of you, it’s always daytime, sunny skies and birds chirping all the time. For others, day and night pass at earth’s relative speed. Whatever you desire comes true.”

“So that means I can have wings after all?”

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head in wonderment. “You are baffling, aren’t you?”

Merlin shrugged, offering up a sheepish grin that tugged artificially at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t feel like spilling his true thoughts on Heaven to Arthur. Not right now, anyway. Not about how he felt like it should have been… more. How he felt too out of place, instead of content the way the deceased should probably feel content once they reached the place of eternal rest. “I’ve been told I make for an interesting conversation.”

“That you most certainly do,” said Arthur. “And no, I’m afraid the wings are off limits. They’re a mark of status. We're a different race of creatures with different capabilities than humans, the wings are part of the job description, I'm afraid. But just about anything else is up for grabs.”

Merlin pondered that.

He just wanted to see his mum again, one last time. There had been too many things he’d wanted to do back on earth. When he told Arthur this, Arthur replied that Merlin could absolutely do what he wanted right here in Heaven.

But that wasn’t the same thing.

 

The garden smelled like how all things in nature did before rainfall, a little bit damp and cool, and soft. Earthy and raw. The precursor to a gentle rain. The air was warm enough, with breezy overtones hinting at cold weather to come, although Merlin knew it would never get cold here unless he wished it so.  
  
Merlin thought about the last things he did when he was alive; things he never would have thought about until he wasn't around to appreciate them. Not until it was too late.

  
  
The last time he was in a car.

His mother was driving, they were going down to the coast to stay in Merlin's great Uncle Gaius's house for the holiday. The road was clear and everything was green, green, and sometimes darker green. The closer they got to the coast, the more the air smelled like the sea as it whipped through the open windows of Hunith's clunky stick shift.

The road would always be empty, as they left in the wee hours of the morning, and by the time they were halfway to their destination the sun would just be peeking out over the horizon. It was the most beautiful car ride. Merlin always looked forward to it.  
  
The last time he ate a meal with his mother- that one makes his heart twinge. It hadn't even been something particularly special, just boiled potatoes with beans and a baked chicken. Any meal cooked by his mother would forever be a memory of home, like it was supposed to be. And not even the great powers of Heaven could replicate that.

The last time he felt the rain on his face, running down his cheeks and into his mouth, tasting clean and a little bit charged with the energy that comes from thunder and lightning and nature. He would hold up a hand and catch water droplets with his fingers before rubbing them together, relieving the dry skin. He would smile and step in puddles on purpose, and then he would go home to be fussed over by his mother, who would insist on wrapping him tight in a wool blanket for fear he would catch his death.

That was how he had ended up catching whatever it was that did kill him, in the end. Moral of the story: mother always knows best.

Merlin felt like sobbing.

He would not, however, do that in front of Arthur.

 

It begged the question again, a question that had Merlin in a state of deep unease: wasn’t Heaven supposed to make you feel happy? Merlin didn’t _want_ to feel this way, and yet, somehow, he was. Like he’d broken the veil that made the deceased see only what they wanted.

Great. Just his luck. He’d broken Heaven.

When Arthur left Merlin to think, Merlin almost didn’t want the Angel to go. He preferred Arthur’s company to anyone else’s at the moment.

He sat on the stone bench, which wasn’t hard like Merlin expected it to be, and his jeans weren’t making him chafe like they usually did when he wore them for too long.

That was another thing – Merlin was wearing exactly the same outfit he’d been wearing, just before the doctors in hospital changed him into a hospital gown.

Instead he was back in his fitted jeans, faded at the knees, and a thick leather belt that kept the denim secure around his slim waist; a black-and-white Led Zeppelin tee he’d borrowed from Will but never gotten a chance to return; his thin, beige rain jacket with a thick collar but no hood; once-muddied green and black trainers that were now dirt-free, so clean he could probably eat out of them (not that he’d want to).

He was glad that, at the very least, his clothes were something familiar. A shame about the mud on his shoes. He didn’t want the last, lingering memory of earth to have faded from them.

 

**-^i^-**

 

After what felt like a solid hour, maybe two, Merlin got up from the bench, and walked out of the gardens.

He wished for the sun to go down, slowly, like it would on any normal day in the world of the living, and it did. The sky gradually became darker. He saw the edge of the garden, and buildings reminding him of London proper, with a couple skyscrapers, the outline of a bridge, and a river.

The scenery was comfortable to him, he didn’t even have to concentrate to make it look that way -- it just did. Without a thought, he headed out of the garden, through the tall, wrought-iron gate decorated with clinging vines and small flowers, and onto a sidewalk that hadn’t been there before.

No cars drove down the quiet street. Air that should have smelled of petrol and rubbish and burnt coffee beans smelled fresh and clean, untainted by human pollution.

The first building he came to was perfectly suited for him— a row of well-kept, if a bit shabby, townhouses, similar to the ones in his neighbourhood. Without a thought, he walked up the steps to the first house and pushed at the door. Unlocked, naturally.

It was his house.

Empty, but it was still the little house he’d grown up in with his mother and sometimes Will, who dropped by nearly every day because he couldn’t be bothered to spend time with his deadbeat father for more than an hour at a time. The well-worn sofa in a shade of blue that calmed Merlin, the area rug that was older than he was, and the fireplace with pictures hanging over the mantle were all exactly where they were supposed to be. Even the picture frame on the very left-hand side was hanging crooked, like it always did.

Merlin walked across the room and ascended the steps. The bannister was the same grainy wood Merlin remembered from home, with the single post missing at the top step from the time Will put his foot through the bannister and got it stuck there. Merlin had laughed so hard.

He looked to his left, where his mother’s bedroom would be, and even though the door was shut and offered no view of the room behind Merlin knew it was empty.

He turned and headed down the hall to his right, shuffling across the wooden floor that creaked in all the places his house back on earth would have, and he pushed open the very last door.

Flicking the light on in his own bedroom, Merlin hardly spared the room a glance before he flopped face down on the bed, exhausted and miserable and alone, inhaling deeply to see if the sheets still smelled of his mum’s favorite laundry detergent. They did.

He buried his face in the pillows and wrapped himself tight under the quilt that had been knit with such care for him by one of his aunts, warm and a little bit scratchy, and the imperfection in such a perfect place was one of the greatest comforts to him right now. He curled in on himself, feeling like he was five again and trying to fall back asleep after a nightmare. He didn’t bother turning the light off.

He might have been twenty four and a grown man, but that didn't change the fact that he was dead, would never stop being dead now that he was, and would probably never see his loved ones until they grew old and died, and came to Heaven. He might not have considered himself much of a crier ever since he was twelve, but that didn't matter. This might have been his house, but it wasn't his home.

On the first night of being dead, Merlin cried himself to sleep.

Maybe this was Heaven, but at the moment, it felt a whole lot like hell.

 

**-^i^-**

 

Merlin forced himself to adjust quickly to the afterlife; if he didn't adjust, he knew he would go mad, and that was out of the question.

 

He asked plenty more questions, and Arthur, always impeccably dressed and often seen without his wings spread, seemed to be at Merlin’s side the moment Merlin needed to ask something.

Merlin assumed this was the typical welcome treatment that all the deceased received, but after a passing remark from the curly-haired angel, who was called Leon, he discovered that that wasn’t the case.

Merlin also learned a lot, especially about things he'd never thought relevant before. For instance, he learned _all_ about portals, courtesy of Arthur's enthusiastic lectures about celestial infrastructure. He explained how portals -- "Yes, Merlin portals. And no, not like in _Star Trek_." "Are you sure?" "Well I'm not familiar with this _Star Trek_ exactly. So, no." "Remind me to talk to you again later." -- were key to jumping from one realm to the other, as Arthur put it. It fascinated Merlin to no end that there was a connection between the two worlds, celestial and physical.

Mortals couldn’t get to them, but they existed nonetheless, all over Heaven, sometimes hidden discreetly away, and sometimes settled in plain sight. Which was perfectly safe with mortals around, apparently, since (as Arthur felt the need to repeat) mortals didn’t have the _ability_ to open a portal themselves.

“You’d need an Angel’s status to work them.”

Merlin nodded thoughtfully, glancing around the café he’d thought up for their outing. Or whatever this meeting could be called. He’d set up the scene in mere seconds, as if Heaven had a mind of its own and knew exactly what Merlin wanted.

The street that the café sat adjacent to looked just like the Champs-Élysées, which Merlin had quite enjoyed walking down during his second visit to Paris when he was fifteen. The only thing it lacked was the Arc de Triomphe sitting at the very end, and of course, the McDonald’s. Merlin hated fast food. American chain restaurants had no place in Paris; Merlin would even argue that they had no place anywhere else, but what did he know.

There were shops with people bustling about, and he wasn’t sure if they were just a product of Heaven’s illusions, or if they were other mortals who had died and fancied the Champs-Élysées just as much as he did. He didn’t ask.

“Like the _Adjustment Bureau_ , but with wings instead of hats,” he noted, thinking about Arthur’s description of portals, and picked up his steaming espresso. He sipped at it gingerly. Arthur’s brow pinched together.

“I have heard of that… that was a book, right?”

Merlin refrained from laughing. It was too adorable that this man – this _Angel,_ who had more power than any human could _dream_ of – didn’t understand any of the mortal pop culture references Merlin threw his way.

In that, at least, Merlin felt like he could have the upper hand. While a mighty celestial creature, Arthur was not all-knowing in the way that Merlin would expect an Angel of the Lord to be.

Merlin was adjusting, but Arthur was doing a world of good to take the edge off. Not that he would tell Arthur that.

“Why are you doing this anyway?” Merlin asked some minutes later, finishing off the rather excellent espresso and poppy seed biscuits he’d received out of thin air. Thin air, or an invisible waiter, but he dismissed the idea because it creeped him out too much.

“Doing what?” Arthur asked, sounding like he was trying a little too hard to play it casual. He picked up the menu in front of him gave it a cursory glance, tipping Merlin off that the Angel wasn’t particularly interested in answering the question. Not directly, at least. Merlin huffed.

“This,” he pressed, gently putting a hand on the menu to bring it down from Arthur’s face. The Angel looked up slowly, trying for innocent. It almost worked, too. “You’re giving me all this attention, and here I thought it was just standard procedure, y’know? Welcoming new arrivals and all.” Merlin gestured with a hand and almost spilled his coffee. “But I asked your buddy Leon, and he said otherwise.”

He could have sworn he heard Arthur swear under his breath; he must have heard wrong, of course, because Angels certainly didn’t swear.

With a quick frown that was replaced with a look of total indifference, Arthur shrugged. He was doing that a lot lately, whenever the answer to a question was of comparative consequence. “I’ve had some time off, lately.”

“From what?”

“From none-of-your-business and company, that’s what.”

Merlin pouted, crossing his arms. “Now you’re just being rude.”

“I suppose I am,” Arthur sighed, looking for all the world like he couldn’t care less if he was being rude or not.

“I have another question.”

“There’s a surprise.” Arthur’s deadpan brand of humor, while a little churlish at times, endeared Merlin, especially in a world where everyone was supposed to be nothing but cheery and polite. Maybe it was Heaven’s way of giving Merlin what he wanted: a flaw. Arthur was certainly flawed, and Merlin was quickly learning that most Angels were. So, so flawed. Perhaps even as much as humans, but Merlin wisely kept his gob shut when it came to opinions like that. He had a funny feeling it would do nothing but offend.

Heaven was kind of a mess. Not to say it wasn’t breathtaking and beautiful at times, but yeah, it was a mess. A very happy mess. So many things going on, so many places, and so many possibilities.

And it wasn’t just one thing. Heaven was perfect chaos here, pristine order there, and Merlin didn’t doubt that if he made a request of his own, he could shape his own little happy place and reside there for the rest of his afterlife, doing whatever he pleased, when he pleased, for all eternity. While an exact replica of his old home on earth was nice for the first week or so, it felt empty without his mother around to fill the space with her endless, radiant sweetness.

Heaven could fill any need, any desire, except that one.

Merlin hated it.

Not Heaven itself, of course, but the idea of it. Perfection for eternity?

Merlin _liked_ flaws. They were what made everything else better. Special. Perfect unsettled him; he wasn’t sure why, but a world without flaws didn’t really pinpoint in his mind as what Heaven should really be.

 

Arthur humored Merlin in answering his endless stream of questions while he showed him through streets that look like they were dragged straight out of a storybook world, others from Rome or ancient Greece, polished and reconstructed like new before being set down up here. Buildings from all different decades – different centuries, even – and all different nations lined the streets, none exactly alike but all melting into each other seamlessly, like a very colourful, structured art piece.

Some were separated by trees or ponds or gardens, others were situated high on hills or burrowed beneath them, like something out of the _Hobbit_. Merlin smirked, thinking about how many _Lord of the Rings_ fanatics must be living it up in Heaven right now.

Strangely enough, Merlin never came in contact with another deceased person. The Angels were his only company, Arthur mostly, even though there were times when the streets were packed with people. But Merlin never felt the urge to reach out and communicate with any of them.

He felt like if he did, he would break the spell of _temporary_ that Merlin had convinced himself this was all it was. This was just temporary. If he spoke to another member of the dead, it would only confirm that he was past the point of living. He was doornail dead.

 

**-^i^-**

 

Merlin personally met his first non-Archangel within the first week of his arrival to Heaven.

 

Gwaine -- A cherub who fiercely insisted on being called anything _but_ a cherub. He became Merlin’s friend without even having to try.

“I’m a member of the cherubim, but so help me God – my apologies to God – you call me a cherub and I will smite you where you stand.” Despite the threat, the look on his face was anything but serious.

 

It started with Merlin wandering the streets, as he had taken to doing in order to entertain himself, and walked right into an old-timey-looking tavern that he was positive he hadn’t imagined for himself; a place called the Rising Sun from the looks of the sign hanging askew over the stonework doorway. Inside, he stumbled upon a small group of cherubim, heatedly arguing over a few pints. Of course, he hadn't known they were cherubim then.

It was the strangest sight Merlin had seen to date.

Some had their wings out, while others had theirs hidden away, and all were dressed in civvies like a bunch of mortal men having a regular night out at the pub. Accustomed only to seeing Angels wearing no less than designer suits and silk ties, Merlin was stunned to see so many Angels looking and acting so… casual.

While most of the Angels ignored Merlin, possibly assuming he wouldn’t care for their company, one of them, an Angel without his wings out, looked up from his pint and grinned at Merlin. Merlin took it as a sign to approach. The Angel offered to get him a pint, on the house, and that had been that. That was Gwaine.

 

“So, when’d you bite the dust, eh?” the Angel asked, flicking a lock of long, slightly curled chestnut hair away from his face. The man looked more pirate than Angel, even more so wearing the plain white shirt with loose sleeves and the unlaced neck, exposing a chest with an impressive display of curly brown hairs. Merlin nearly forgot the question.

The Angel, who mentioned after a brief handshake that his name was Gwaine, laughed and took another swig from his glass. “’S alright, mate, us cherubim can have that effect on people.”

Merlin laughed along; Gwaine’s presence was far from stiff and formal like that of any Archangel he'd met to date, and Merlin felt like he could be completely himself around this Angel.

“How’d it happen then?”

It took Merlin a moment to remember what they were talking about. “Hm? Oh, I um – I caught a cold.” He bobbed his head up and down, matter-of-fact.

“A… cold.” Gwaine’s tone tempered into something more earnest. “You look like a twentieth century, maybe twenty-first century deceased. And the doctors let you die from… a cold?” His expression was stony.

“I mean, it _started_ as a cold,” Merlin felt like he needed to point out. Although yes, technically, it was a cold that killed him. “Pneumonia. Infection spread to my lungs. My ears, too, which was bloody awful. Couldn’t hear a thing, not even my mother’s voice. The infection was idiopathic.”

Gwaine cringed. “So in other words, the doctors didn’t know shite about how it started.”

Merlin shook his head, running a finger down the condensation of his own glass.

“That’s rough, mate, I’m sorry to hear that. But I take it you’re happy now, eh? Heaven’s got to be nice after suffering like that.” He nodded, almost to himself, as he looked down into his glass to find it empty of all but foam. With a tilt of his head, the glass refilled itself in an instant. Merlin couldn’t quite get used to all the magic tricks that Angels were so keen on performing. It made him feel like they were taking their power too much for granted.

The man happily downed another gulp of the liquid in his glass before remarking, “You’re young, too. Bummer about that. But at least you’ll look stellar for the funeral.”

Merlin wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh.

Then Gwaine reached out and grasped Merlin's shoulder in a show of sympathy. Merlin, even though he was never much for receiving apologies or sympathies from people, appreciated the Angel’s gruff attempt at being comforting.

“I mean,” Merlin muttered, hoping to switch the subject to something lighter, “I’m coping and all. It’s not easy, obviously, considering I’m dead and everything, but I’m sure it’ll get better. I’m guessing that’s how it is for everyone, yeah?”

The hand grasping his shoulder loosened. The Angel was no longer paying any attention to his drink, just Merlin, and his brow was scrunched in a way that probably meant he was thinking quite hard about something.

“Yeah… yeah, definitely. Everyone’s… yeah. Coping.” He chuckled a little, although it sounded forced, and buried his nose in the glass tumbler again. Merlin raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push for more of an answer.

For a little while, the two of them sat in comfortable silence across the table from each other – well, in as much silence as they could expect while sitting amongst a small crowd of rowdy cherubim fighting over a game of scrabble (gambling was probably a no-no in Heaven, so poker must have been out of the question), while another five or six traded jokes over a billiards table.

“So… cherubim,” Merlin tried, a new thought coming to him. “Like cupids, right?”

Gwaine thunked his glass on the gritty surface of the wooden table, hard enough that Merlin heard a faint _crack,_ and the Angel grit his teeth. “The only thing worse than being called a cherub,” he hissed, looking suddenly dangerous, “is being called a cupid. I’ll let it slide, but only since you’re new here.”

Merlin gulped. “Noted,” he said.

“You had a question to follow that, yeah?”

“Erm, yeah,” Merlin stuttered to find his words again. He really didn’t want to offend one of the few friends he’d managed to make in his afterlife. He didn’t want to start things off on the wrong foot. After all, he was going to be spending quite a bit of time up here. Forever, actually. “Your job, does it include going down to earth?”

“Mate, all Angels are required to go down to earth at some point in their career. I’m always down there. Why?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

Gwaine snorted into his drink. “Aren’t we all,” he murmured, a glint in his eye. Merlin wasn’t sure what he expected.

“Not in that way,” he elaborated, “a friend of mine, Will Evans, went missing about four months ago. I wasn’t sure if maybe…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the rest of the sentence.

“If maybe he was dead?” Gwaine finished for him. Merlin made a pained face. “Care to describe him a bit better than ‘my friend?’” He gave a meaningful look when Merlin hesitated, unsure. “You know, how old was he, what did he look like, was he a sweet kid without a mean bone in his body, or was he a son of a bitch who deserved a good punch in the face?”

“Second one,” Merlin said without a second’s hesitation, but backtracked when he realized how bad that sounded. “I mean, he was my best mate. A cocky arsehole, but my best mate. Twenty-four, brown hair going just below his ears, sort of a big nose, grew up in Haringey, London, with a single da? Ever heard of him?”

“Can’t say I have,” said Gwaine, but he looked thoughtful. “Angels remember the names of all the deceased, whether we like it or not. Part of the way the Big Man programmed us or something like that.” He tapped a finger to his temple, smug. “Bloke’s name pops up on my radar for sure, plenty of times, but none that match that exact description. Good news, mate, your friend’s not dead.”

Merlin breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God, Will was still out there. Missing, perhaps, but still out there.

Merlin wondered if it was out of the question to request a haunting; he’d very much like to scare Will shitless – just enough to send him crawling back to his mother, to Hunith, and force him be there for her when she was probably in a right state over her son.

“Do you think you could track him, though? If you’re down on earth all the time like you said?”

Gwaine’s mouth pulled into a dubious frown and he shook his head. “My hands are tied, sorry, and even if I could I wouldn’t. Angels are honor-bound to let the mortals have their relative privacy unless they’re either dying, or pose a serious threat to the realms of Heaven and earth, and anything in between, excluding the great pit of fire Downstairs. You’d have to be a pretty fucked up human to warrant a visit like that. Ask an Archangel, they’ll say the same thing.” The second tumbler of presumptively alcoholic liquid was finished, and Gwaine didn’t replenish it this time.“Fuckin’ Archangels,” he muttered, probably not expecting Merlin to be listening as closely as he was. Merlin heard the jab with crystal clarity.

Frankly, Merlin thought the whole “ranking” nonsense between Angels was extremely hypocritical for a place like Heaven, which allegedly existed under a God who claimed everyone was an equal in His eyes.

Arthur had admitted before that it hadn’t actually been God’s idea, but the Angels’. They realized that some of their kind had been born differently, with higher levels of celestial power. There were tensions, sure, but Angels were Angels. Angels didn’t kill each other.

Not since the time of the Crusades anyway.

And apparently, they didn’t track mortals per request, either. Not unless it was under special circumstances.

Merlin’s heart sank. So there was no finding Will – not with an Angel’s help, anyway, but maybe if he could find a way to pull a few strings…

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Gwaine, smirking again. The host of angels playing billiards laughed uproariously at something one of the others had said, and Gwaine chuckled along, although he couldn’t possibly have heard what they were talking about.

Merlin watched as one of the cherubim unfurled his wings and flapped them once, then twice, effectively sending a wind strong enough to nudge the final coloured ball into a pocket of the billiards table. The Angels on his side cheered. Apparently, using your wings was not against the rules up here.

“If you’re hoping to get a free pass and go searching Downstairs on earth for your friend, I can already tell you that the answer is no.” Gwaine drew Merlin’s attention away from the game.

“So it’s never happened before?” Merlin asked, still hopeful.

“Oh it has, but very rarely. And the mortals never come back up. Merlin, was it?” he asked, although Merlin didn’t see why he was asking. Angels knew everyone’s name whether they wanted to or not, as Gwaine had put it. “Merlin, the minute you decide to trade out your ticket to Heaven for a place wandering earth, there’s no coming back. Say you do find your friend, then what?” He shrugged, sliding his glass away. Then he leaned forward, and all jokes aside, Gwaine really did seem like a kind creature despite hanging around a place like this.

His features were pulled into something less amused and more focused. “Stay up here, kid,” he said, lowering his voice. “Take my advice: don’t do something you’ll regret later. And don’t buy into all the shite that the Archangels try to shove down your throat.”

For the sake of not wanting to say anything that might attract the wrong kind of attention, Merlin nodded.

As it stood now, Merlin liked Gwaine. He was probably the most real, grounded person he had met in Heaven. And the man was an Angel. How ironic was that.

Normally, when Merlin discovered a new place up here -- like a five-star hotel fit inside what he’d thought was a small apartment building, complete with maids and butlers and gorgeous vintage décor – he stayed an hour, maybe a day, and then went on to discover something else.

Merlin decided he would come back to this place again.

 

**-^i^-**

 

"I know you want to keep an eye on him, but he's going to notice something's not right, sooner or later.  He's already started to notice how much more attention you give him than the other mortals. Actually, it looks as though he’s the _only_ mortal you’ve been paying attention to lately." The Archangel, Leon, inclined his head respectfully. "Not that I'm one to be telling you what to do, but I would be careful, Arthur. We don't know if he could just be..."  
  
"What?" Arthur asked. He was agitated. It showed, because his wings were out, and they were folding in and out slowly, a calm wave before a storm. "If he could just be exceptionally observant?” he scoffed. “He asks so many questions it would make anyone’s head spin. Lancelot dropped in earlier, said he was having a chat with our old friend Gwaine today."  
  
“The cherub.” Leon suppressed an eye roll. “Still participating in what the mortals refer to as ‘getting pissed,’ I take it.”  
  
"Lancelot related some interesting information to me. Gwaine thinks Merlin might be able to see through the Glamour."  
  
"A mortal? That's impossible." Leon’s expression switched from concerned to stunned in the blink of an eye.  
  
"And _that_ is why I'm keeping an eye on him."  
  
"Are you sure it's not just because you like him?"  
  
Leon knew Arthur well. Hell, they had been friends and comrades in arms since before the Crusades. Millennia had passed and still, they remained good friends. Brothers, even. But this was pushing it, just a little.

Arthur pointedly made no comment, turning on his heel to look elsewhere. “If you hear anything, please do inform me. Do not hesitate to tell me if anything _strange_ happens around Merlin.”

“Something tells me things already have," remarked Leon, "seeing as you’ve been hanging around the man like you can’t get enough of him.”

“Shut up.”

“How is he?” Leon asked, pushing in his chair to the table situated at the center of the Hall of Contracts. The meeting with the other six Angels had been adjourned just ten minutes prior, standard earth time. They were the only two left in the Hall. “I heard he was being especially difficult for someone who got accepted into _Heaven,_ of all places. That's _rare_ , Arthur, considering he was never a priest, never took any vows, and never did anything particularly special before his death brought him up here. The most he did was a smattering of volunteer service. Going to a soup kitchen every other month and donating blood twice a year doesn't normally cut it." He looked impatient, which displeased Arthur. "Why waste your time on someone so ungrateful?”

“I don’t think he’s ungrateful,” Arthur murmured, his head tilting pensively. His focus was on the other end of the hall, where a crucifix hung solemnly on the marbled wall, unseeing and unjudging from its lofty position ten feet above the ground. “But he’s a baffling case. Just keep an eye on him, that’s all I ask, Leon. All jokes aside, there’s something about him that doesn’t quite come off as normal to me. See that he doesn’t, I don’t know, break something." Leon snorted from behind. Arthur huffed. "Whatever, I don't care. Just watch him.”

“Of course, Arthur.” Leon bowed his head, but he was grinning. 

"And wipe that smile off your face, for the Lord's sake, you're far too old to be acting so childish."

"Oh, hush, you know I'd risk my life for you, Arthur. We all would."

"I know that," Arthur snapped, but when he refocused his gaze on Leon his expression was softer. "Now get out."


	2. Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a busy week, but here's chapter 2! Thank you to everyone who's read and commented, I appreciate it a ton!

 

 

 

Merlin went back to the tavern the next day.

The day after that, too. And whenever it became too much he would just... wander, he supposed that was what you would call it. He wandered aimlessly through the world that really wasn't so different from child’s moulding clay, shaping to his every whim, and sometimes melting a little at the edges. Almost like it was trying too hard to back off with the whole “perfect” thing.

It never ceased to get on his nerves when things were too right, too perfect, too... perfectly imperfect. It was change he wanted, not _this_.

That so sought-after change came from the routine of meeting up with Gwaine every other day, where the Angel patiently described to him how things “went” up here in the clouds.

They weren’t really in the clouds, of course, but Gwaine liked the analogy.

Gwaine seemed to enjoy Merlin's company over the other cherubim, which was curious, but understandable when Merlin saw just how often the others ignored him.

Then Merlin discovered that they weren't ignoring him - they respected him. Gwaine was the boss here. The Chief Cherub, if you will (Merlin never bloody _dared_ say that aloud for fear of getting flayed within an inch of his afterlife).

Merlin saw Arthur less and less with every passing day. Every time he saw Arthur, Merlin asked what it was that kept him so busy – fat lot of good that did him, as he usually ended up the recipient of a casual shrug or an indirect answer that wasn’t really an answer.

And “Archangel things” did not qualify as an answer in Merlin’s book. Although Arthur apparently thought it did, because that was one of the few responses he ever gave.

Merlin tried to go about the days as normally as he could in a place like this, and the more he tried to make it fit, the less that Heaven seemed to want to fit for him.

Merlin assumed that if Heaven was going by the rules Arthur claimed it followed, then Merlin’s time would be relative to that of earth’s time; if that was the case, he hoped he was in sync with London hours. He’d really like to know that he was waking up at the same time his mother normally would, that way he’d know when she was putting on the kettle, making arrangements – he kept having to remind himself that Hunith was probably planning a funeral by now – and wondered when she would be having her tea, when she would go for her daily stroll around the tiny garden out back, inspecting the pansies and chrysanthemums. Their yard was tiny, but she made it work to her advantage. Hunith had always had a green thumb.

The next door neighbors, the O’Henrys, always commented on what beautiful flowers she grew, Merlin thought fondly.

God, he really fucking missed her.

And then she would always pick a certain time, exactly between her walk and her tea to sit down in the kitchen and think. Just think. She’d do that sometimes, just sit with a cup of tea cooling on the kitchen table in front of her, and put her chin in her hand, stare out the window, and just think. When Merlin was little, he’d say that mum was going to her special “wonderland,” where everyone had their own, enormous garden with all the pansies they could ever want, and no one was without a mum or a dad…

Merlin didn’t want to picture Hunith sitting at the kitchen table with tears in her eyes and her face hidden in her hands, thinking about everything she could have done to save her son. Everything she could have done quicker, everything she could have said differently so that the doctors would hurry along with treatments until money came in. Everything she could have filed for under the insurance, everything…

Everything. That was exactly what she had done, and somehow it still hadn’t been enough in the end. But it would never be her fault.

And now Merlin was thinking about everything that he should _never_ have to think about again in a place where he was meant to be enjoying eternal rest. Eternity was not restful. Eternity was frightening.

 

**-^i^-**

 

It had been a little over a month since Merlin’s death.

Merlin still didn’t have the heart to let go of the little townhouse that replicated his old home so perfectly, all except for the people who resided there.

 

The strangest thing that happened during that month was the funeral.

It was bizarre. There was probably a better word for that, but if there was, Merlin couldn't think of one.

Merlin felt himself being buried. He’d literally felt – not seen, just _felt_ – the hands of doctors, and then morticians. Felt hands brushing his cheeks. Felt something wet drip onto his face before it was wiped away, too gentle, too familiar to be the hand of a mortician.

The lid of a casket being shut over his body, the brief weightlessness of being lifted up before being placed in a grave, and faint noises, like crying.

And then, something snapped. Almost like someone switching the station on a radio to a static frequency. He’d lost the last connection he had to his old life, he was sure of it.

It hadn’t taken signing a contract to confirm it, not walking through his old home to find it empty. It was that one hour, that one, torturous hour where he _knew_ what was happening, and yet, he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t un-feel everything that he’d felt within the span of just one hour. It was as good as signing that bloody contract. Worse.

 

He went to Gwaine after that. He wasn’t sure he could face Arthur – couldn’t bring himself to bother Mr. Business-As-Usual Arthur – when he felt so weighed down by grief.

Gwaine explained that this was fairly common, for the deceased to feel the moment when the last of their soul left the earth to properly be at peace with the rest of it. Merlin swallowed, nodding reluctantly. He didn’t want to be parted from the life he had worked so hard to make down there. Now there was no going back, period.

Gwaine suggested he take Merlin to show him his house.

 

“Um, I didn’t even know Angels _had_ houses,” Merlin said, allowing himself to be led down a narrow, busy street filled with wooden stalls shaded by cloth awnings and strange smells that reminded him of something taken out of a market in Greece.

Ancient Greece, that was. Many of the passersby didn’t so much as glance at Merlin or Gwaine, as they all looked like they had somewhere to be. All wore loose clothing that seemed to be made of just one or two sheets of cloth. Togas, only not quite. Not the stereotypical togas Merlin would have pictured, anyway. The cobbled street was a commotion of colour; No piece of clothing was exactly the same shade, the same hue, the same cut. All the colours of the rainbow filled the little market. The air was sticky and cool like the air near a great body of saltwater, and the smell was the same, a little salty and fresh. And a wee bit fishy.

“Where are we, by the way?”

“Hmm?” Gwaine looked around. His wings weren’t out, same as usual, but it was obvious from the faint haze around him that he wasn’t one of the mortally deceased. No one gave the Angel so much as a glance, whereas Merlin appeared to be getting plenty of attention from passersby, slowly but surely, as they made their way down the street. “I live a little past this Greek sector – the fifth one, just a little tip if you’re ever lost – then up over that hill and through the gate.” He pointed a finger past Merlin’s nose. “You’ll see. Angels like their privacy, can’t have stray mortals wandering in…” he looked thoughtful then. “Although, I might’ve let a couple wander in anyway.” With a twinkle in his eye Gwaine leaned in towards Merlin and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone I told you that, by the way.” His smile was mischievous, and Merlin held a finger to his lips with a grin of his own.

“Mum’s the word.”

“Ahh, that’s one of the reasons I like you, Merlin. Good with a secret.” He gave Merlin a hearty clap on the back.

Merlin shrugged. “But hang on… does that mean you’ve got a Chinatown up here, too?” he asked. He was sort of joking, but Gwaine’s answer quickly forced him to reassess.

“Oh, for sure,” said Gwaine, completely serious.

Something clicked, all of a sudden. “Wait,” said Merlin, and paused mid-stride. Gwaine looked back and stopped, too. Another market-goer, an older man with dark, curly hair, nearly stumbled into Merlin with a great basket full of spices balanced in his arms. Merlin stepped aside in the nick of time before he got a noseful of cinnamon and paprika, but couldn’t be distracted from his sudden epiphany. Gwaine eyed the near run-in, but he allowed Merlin to speak. “So what you’re saying is, Heaven is just like one gigantic city made up of different sectors.”

“Um…”

Merlin toyed with the idea, thinking. “Like, with different areas where similar people crowd about? You know, sort of like the Italians in Philadelphia or the Greeks in Paris? It’s one giant bloody city!” He waved his hands around animatedly like he was picturing a blueprint of Heaven, and blimey, did it look incredible. In the process, he nearly knocked another basket right out of a grumpy older woman’s hands. Not quite, but he got close.

Gwaine nodded slowly, looking pensive. “Sort of… it’s what you make of it, I guess.”

It was never a straight answer with Angels, honestly.

That was when someone really _did_ bump into Merlin, a blocky-nosed, toga-clad woman carrying a ceramic pot under one arm. She pivoted on one foot to steady herself and fumbled with the pot, before she snapped her head around. With a stunned look, the woman threw up her free hand in a gesture that Merlin assumed was meant to be rude, and shouted something at him in what Merlin could only guess was Greek. Very early Greek. Possibly very rude Greek.

As soon as the woman was out of earshot, Merlin leaned over and muttered to Gwaine, “Cripes, is everyone here that touchy?” He watched as the woman gathered herself and her things and stormed off with a sour expression.

When he turned to catch Gwaine’s face, he found not amusement, but bewilderment. Like Gwaine wasn't sure how to respond.

“She bumped into you,” he said. Merlin didn’t know what to make of it.

“Yeah, she did... Gwaine?" Gwaine's expression was unreadable. "It’s fine, look,” Merlin spread his arms, just to prove he hadn’t gotten so much as a crinkle in his raincoat. To be fair, it was always full of wrinkles. “No harm done.”

After a brief second more of Gwaine looking like his very world had been rocked, he shook it off, and laughed.

It wasn’t a very believable laugh. “It’s just that," he began, "that doesn’t normally happen up here." He tilted his head in the direction of the Greek woman, sounding like he was trying for lighthearted.

Which told Merlin that the brief exchange, however ordinary it seemed to him, had been out of the ordinary. Very out of the ordinary.

Merlin frowned, contemplating. “What, people don’t normally bump into each other up here?” he asked.

“More like not at all,” murmrued Gwaine, staring straight ahead towards the towering hill situated past the gate. Merlin knew when someone was trying to avoid the subject. Gwaine was a friend – maybe one of the only friends he would ever be lucky enough to get up here, at this rate. He didn’t want to ruin it.

So Merlin didn’t ask.

**-^i^-**

 

Gwaine didn’t really have as much leeway in designing his home; not because of his rank, but because he was never around as much as most of the other Angels. He was one of the busiest workers up here, although Merlin would never have guessed from looking at him, considering how often the man could be found wiling away the hours in a dodgy tavern.

“It’s my job to make sure Sarah Jane makes heart eyes with John Smith, or have Jack Jones fall tits over arse for Davie McNavy and so on and so forth.” The cherub rolled his eyes, but he sounded proud. “I’ve always had a heavy workload as it is, and it hasn’t gotten any easier over the millennia.”

Merlin nearly tripped over nothing. _Millenia._ He couldn’t forget that no matter how young these Angels looked, they’d been around longer than probably every single generation of Merlin’s family.

“And I like my home just fine. Nothing too big. Just comfortable enough,” Gwaine continued on as if nothing he’d said was even remotely out of the ordinary.

 

It was a small-ish house compared to what Merlin had pictured, resembling the rustic country homes of early nineteenth-century Ireland. As promised, the walk was just up a path that cut over the hill, and past a set of heavy grey gates where a sizeable lawn sat proudly. The only flowers that grew in front of the house were red roses.

Merlin couldn’t have been less surprised by the gardening arrangements.

 

The inside was even less surprising.

It was a bachelor pad fit for the Prince of Wales. Maybe the king. The first thing that stood out to Merlin was the bar, spanning the entirety of the supposed living area on one end.

Across the room and away from the bar, a fireplace with an ornately carved mantle enveloped the room in warmth, provided by the blazing fire within. A bearskin rug featuring a disturbingly realistic bear head still attached made Merlin do a quick double take; he really hoped the thing wasn't real. He bloody hated taxidermies. He hated anything that had anything to do with hurting animals -- one of the main reasons he'd been a vegetarian in his former life.

These days, he didn't really have much use for eating, period. Good thing, too, otherwise he'd be losing his appetite from looking at the rug for a second longer than he would have liked. Those beady little eyes were making him squeamish.

Gwaine was behind the bar before Merlin had a chance to take in half the room.

“You want anything?” Gwaine asked, rummaging behind the counter for a couple glasses. Merlin almost declined, but then the cherub added, “Go ahead and have a seat, make yourself comfy. You un, might feel better if you just say what’s on your mind about the whole funeral business.” He motioned towards the cushy looking leather sofa set near the fireplace. It was a ridiculously romantic setting for a ridiculously somber topic, but considering Gwaine's line of work, it didn't come as much of a shock. “Dying’s never easy, mate, trust me. But talk about the funeral. I hear talking about things tends to help -- Not that I’ve ever done it, but you can certainly give it a go.”

That made Merlin’s decision to accept the offer of booze a lot easier.

 

When Merlin was situated on the sofa with a beer, and Gwaine with his whiskey and coke in another chair, Merlin told Gwaine everything.

He started with, “I don’t want to be here.”

In true therapist fashion, Gwaine responded with silence, nodding as if to affirm that Merlin’s feelings were completely rational and valid. He sipped at his whiskey and raised a hand from his knee for Merlin to continue. And Merlin did, starting with his arrival, finding his Imitation Home in Imitation London; not always seeing what he wanted to see, feeling an emptiness in his gut even when he couldn’t pinpoint the source of what was making him feel so empty.

“I don’t know if it’s just the aftereffects of finding out I died, but I expected Heaven to be… more. I dunno. Please tell me if I stop making sense,” Merlin pressed his lips together tightly. The beer was excellent, hardly the same as the briny seawater shite they sold at just about any dodgy corner store in London. And it wasn’t all that surprising as it’d come from Gwaine, but it did nothing to ease the churning in Merlin’s stomach that made him feel like something wasn’t right.

Gwaine shook his head calmly. “’S not your fault for not understanding everything up here. Although, the part about your London being completely empty comes off strange to me.” He set down his drink on the glass-covered table in front of his chair. The fire crackled in merry oblivion.

Merlin thought it was funny for Gwaine to say, “Your London.” Like everyone got their own personal replica of London. Well, perhaps they did.

“I’ve never heard of that sort of thing. Not a single person, you said?” Gwaine asked, for once looking intensely focused on something other than his whiskey.

Merlin frowned. “Not one.” He tried for another swig of his beer, grimacing at the way it made his teeth cold. Under Gwaine’s intense scrutiny, Merlin set down the bottle next to the cherub’s near-empty glass. “I’ve been alone in that stupid house in that great piece of London for nearly a month. I try not to think about it.” He shrugged indifferently. “It’s why I’m always out doing something. Heaven’s big. I keep finding new places every day.” Which he did, but even that was getting old quickly.

To make a point, Merlin gestured to the living room – Gwaine’s home. He’d never been here, and he’d certainly never been to one of the “Greek sectors” of Heaven before. Or any sector, other than his own, mock London or Imitation Champs-Élysées. With any luck, he wouldn’t bother any more of the dead if he came across a new sector. The Greek woman with the pot had put him enough on edge.

It was easy to just sit there, looking at the fire in silence for a few minutes.

Merlin kind of wished he had a watch, just so he could keep track of time Downstairs, but he hadn’t been able to find one in any of the shops he’d come across. He couldn’t even make one appear on his wrist if he wished hard enough.

Some things seemed to work fine, but making direct wishes was tricky. To Merlin, Heaven was like a clockwork machine with one gear that got stuck now and again, and decided not to cooperate for small things.

Another ten or so minutes ticked by. Neither man picked up his drink again. Merlin couldn’t help but wonder if Gwaine really felt as calm as he appeared on the surface. He could tell that the Angel was a good liar if he wanted to be; the best, even. But he didn’t stand out to Merlin as dishonorable.

Far from it, actually. Gwaine would never lie to him, Merlin was sure of it.

“There’s something different about my situation, isn’t there?” he murmured, not looking away from the fireplace. He heard Gwaine stir in his seat, but there was no response.

He tried a different approach. “You don’t have to tell me everything… but I’m tired up here, Gwaine. I just want to know if there’s anything I can do to fix whatever it is I broke.”

“You didn’t break anything,” Gwaine finally muttered from his chair. His whiskey and coke remained untouched on the table. He must have been seriously deep in thought.

When Merlin looked at his face, he saw he wasn’t wrong: Gwaine’s brow was set in a deep crease, making him look like a very pensive pirate stewing in his captain’s quarters.

“Then what’s wrong with me?” Merlin begged, and finally stood up from the sofa, a little unsure on his own two feet. “What did I do to make Heaven stop working for me? Is it supposed to be like this for everyone else? …Gwaine?”

Gwaine finally looked up, and his face was drawn. Merlin had never seen the Angel look so serious. “Mate, not gonna lie. I don’t have a clue.”

 

**-^i^-**

 

"Sure you don't need any help finding your way back?" Gwaine asked, in a show of lightening up the mood as he poured himself a second glass of whiskey (hold the coke) from behind the bar. Merlin shook his head. He didn’t really feel like he should be wearing out his welcome.

"Besides," Merlin added, heading for the front door, "I'm sure Heaven wouldn't let me get lost, right? Not unless I wanted that to happen. Some things _do_ turn out in my favour up here, nearly as much as they don’t."

"Right." It didn’t sound like Gwaine was put to ease very much by Merlin’s answer.

Merlin ignored the way the Angel sounded less than a hundred percent sure, thanked him for the drink (as per usual), turned, and walked out.

  
  
Stepping outside of the house on the hill, Merlin was greeted by a blast of cool, fresh air. It was nice after the almost uncomfortable heat in Gwaine's country home. Must've been a cherubim thing.  
  
He left the same way they'd come in, in no hurry to return to the empty London townhouse that he couldn't quite bring himself to call home.  
  
After making his way down the path and to the open gates, Merlin realized that he had no idea where he wanted to go. Normally he’d go back to the empty streets of Imitation London, out of habit, maybe take a look into one of the old shops he'd grown up around.

It was funny, he'd expected to find the area bustling about with people, just like he'd seen back in the Greek sector. But not a soul dotted the cityscape.

Merlin would have been all right with even a stray, deceased businessman making his way to one of the office buildings to play out his dream of being a big-name CEO; or maybe an old woman sitting on the bench in the quiet, shaded park, wishing for nothing more than to spend her eternity feeding her illusionary birds.  
  
Not a soul. He wondered why. He always wondered why.

Heaven left him with more questions than answers (as did the Angels), and every single minute of the day, he found himself asking more questions than he could wrap his own head around. Heaven wasn't supposed to be confusing, it was supposed to be restful.   
  
Arthur had said that Heaven was whatever you wished it to be, and yet, Merlin hadn't wished for this. He wanted to see at least one more person in the general vicinity of Heaven's London. Anyone. He wished to see his mother. He wished to see Will. He wished he could find someone in whom he could confide.  
  
Again, Arthur was the closest he could get to that. Him or Gwaine, although Gwaine wasn’t much for getting into the dramatics of it. Arthur seemed to handle stories about Merlin’s old life better than Gwaine did, and he only complained about the chatter a little bit.

But even then, the Archangel was standoffish at times and hardly in the mood to answer a million questions a day, although Arthur’s patience was something Merlin envied.

Arthur's job entailed a great many things, as Merlin quickly found out through hours of merciless interrogation, often accompanied by a walk in the gardens. The gardens were a favorite of Merlin’s, and it was evident that Arthur knew it, too. While Arthur frequently came off as the aloof type, Merlin wasn't fooled. Not even a little.

Arthur was... selfless, a little headstrong, had an affinity to lead, couldn't be arsed to do what he was told and therefore felt the need to run everyone and everything _and_ , much to the confusion of all, seemed to have a soft spot for Merlin and his mindless chatter.

All right, so it wasn't mindless. At least, not to Merlin. But Merlin understood just how much patience it took to put up with a man such as himself. He could ramble if someone wasn't there to stop him. Or if they just didn't know any better.

And Arthur still put up with him. It was like the eighth wonder of the world. The only other souls who ever put up with Merlin were Will Evans, and Merlin's very own mother. And probably his father, but he hardly remembered the man as he'd been seven years old when Balinor Ambrosius disappeared from his and Hunith's lives.

 

Merlin caught himself wandering, deep in his thoughts. When he did manage to pull himself out of the reverie he realized he had no idea where he was.

Because of _course_ , if Heaven could ever allow someone to get lost, it just had to be Merlin. What a surprise.

He swiveled his head left, and saw nothing but hills and trees. To his right, about a quarter mile in the distance was what looked like the Imitation Chateau de Versailles, or what Arthur told him was actually known to heavenlies as the Hall of Contracts. So he wasn't lost, per se, he'd just gotten a bit sidetracked. He could probably make it back to the mock London proper, easy, but that wasn't where he felt like going.

Where _did_ he feel like going…

 _I've always wanted to see Rome_ , he thought on a whim. He'd always wanted to visit Italy, although it didn’t really matter which part. It had been on his bucket list of places to go, but, of course, that bucket was long-kicked.  
  
Still... if this _was_ Heaven, it couldn’t hurt to—

  
  
Something _dinged_ behind him. Merlin turned around, and quickly stumbled backwards over the asphalt.

That, Merlin knew with one hundred percent certainty, had not been there before. A pair of lift doors was staring back at him from across the street.

There was no reason for a set of lift doors to be sitting in the middle of a suburban back road. But then, there was no reason for there to be an Imitation London or a Greek marketplace or a house for a cherub, so this couldn’t have been the strangest thing he’d seen up here. Still, it was weird. Weirder than the usual weird.

Picking himself up from the ground and brushing off his jeans, Merlin watched as the lift doors – which weren’t even attached to any lift – slid open soundlessly, like they’d been obsessively oiled every few hours.

There was nothing for Merlin to do, other than step across the street towards the open doors, and step in.

  
  
**-^i^-**

  
  
He jabbed a thumb on the button labeled ‘G’ for what he assumed meant ground floor, whatever the ground floor could possibly be, before quickly stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets.

Maybe Heaven had different levels as well as sectors?

The familiar second of no gravity when the elevator started down made Merlin’s stomach flip-flop.

He looked at the little space over the doors where a regular lift would normally count down the floors. But all Merlin saw were two letters – I.R. – blinking red above him.

Merlin just about jumped out of his skin when a disembodied voice rang out from invisible speakers, cutting through the silence. The voice was female, middle-aged and courteous, with a sleek, almost annoyingly posh English accent.

“ _Division: Not detected. Status: Benevolent. Hello, Merlin,”_ Merlin startled at the voice’s mention of his name, “ _Please do not attempt to exit the lift during your descent. You will be arriving at your destination shortly. Thank you for using InterRealms, the number one choice for celestials of all divisions everywhere.”_

There was a _click_ , and the voice cut out. Merlin didn’t know what that was about.

The doors _dinged_ open. He stepped out cautiously, finding solid brick beneath his feet. Another road.

Taking in his surroundings slowly, Merlin found himself in the middle of a busy city street, where street vendors shouted in a language that was not English – Italian, he could only guess – and small groups of people wearing sunglasses and carrying cameras flocked towards nearby shops. Tourists. He looked to his right.

A car was headed straight for him.

Merlin dove out of the way, and narrowly avoided being flattened like a crepe. He landed painfully on the pavement, and was thankful to be wearing jeans.

The odd thing was, the driver hadn't even seemed to _notice_ Merlin. They hadn’t slowed down - not so much as a swerve, or a cuss out of the car window. And no one around appeared to think anything was amiss, either.

A second glance at his surroundings told Merlin a few things:

One, this was not London like he’d been anticipating.

Two, the view from the little bridge where he stood looked exactly like a greeting card out of Rome.

Three, he could hear someone playing music on a violin that sounded like something out of his favorite movie. It sent chills down his spine.

And four, he was definitely not in Heaven anymore.

The detail that tipped him off to realization number four was that, at least in Heaven, you could actually bump into other people, even if it earned you a very rude reaction.

 

And yet, a woman had just walked right through him.

Not _past_ him.

Through him. Like he wasn't even there.

He took a minute to process this. So if he wasn't in Heaven.... _No_.

It couldn't have been that easy. Had they really given him a second chance? He felt almost giddy at the prospect.

Just then someone tapped Merlin on the shoulder. Startled, he whirled around to face-

 

" _Arthur?_ " Merlin's mouth fell open a few inches. "What- what are you doing here?" It was disorienting enough to step out of a lift and find himself in a different country - possibly a different realm - but this was more than he could handle. Arthur's expression was passive, but his eyes spelled danger. The man was confused and, quite possibly, angry, and if he wasn’t then he was certainly on his way.

"I should ask you the same thing," Arthur rebutted, his tone even. His figure blocked out most of the city sights from Merlin, who was feeling partly disappointed for having his field trip to Rome – fucking shite, he was actually in Rome – cut short by an Archangel.

An Archangel who didn’t look quite as pleased about Merlin’s unforeseen excursion. “So sorry to cut this little field trip short, but I received a notification that an undocumented celestial – clearly not a _celestial_ as it’s _you –_ managed to not only discover one of our portals-”

“It’s not--”

“-but was able to operate said portal without prior knowledge of their function, and then, much to our complete and utter bewilderment, took the portal straight to bloody _Rome.”_ Arthur’s nostrils flared. There was the briefest shimmer in the air behind him, and Merlin swore he saw Arthur’s wings for a split second. But the next, they were gone. _“_ Which begs the question again, what are _you_ doing here?” With each word, the volume of his voice went up.

Of course, Merlin had no good answer to the question.

"I think you’d better come with me,” Arthur said, getting in Merlin’s face. Merlin refrained from backing down.

“Why?”

“Because where you come from nowadays, I’m in charge. Get in the lift.”

Merlin watched Arthur jab a stern finger behind him; he hadn’t even realized that the lift doors hadn’t moved an inch since he’d arrived. The little box above the doors blinked a number: 20. But a second later it switched to 19, then 18…

It was counting down.

Merlin whipped back around to face Arthur. “And if I don’t?” he asked, voice lowered. Out of the corner of his eye, the numbers continued to count down, flashing from harmless green to a warning red. 15, 14…

He wasn’t sure what it meant, but whatever it was, it had Arthur agitated.

Actually, right now Arthur looked like he was on the brink of having an aneurism. But he also seemed like he was working on collecting himself, and doing it rather well, because he brushed at a nonexistent bit of fuzz on his luxuriously suited shoulder, blew hot air through his nose, and turned his head to look Merlin in the eye. “Please, don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow.

Arthur went on, the speed of his words picking up like he was in a great hurry. “You signed a contract. Heavenly contracts are some of the most binding things in the universe. The consequences of breaking one could be severe, Merlin.” Something in his voice… panic? It couldn’t have been.

Merlin had completely forgotten about the contract.

Rather than risk making things worse – although he wasn’t quite sure what he’d done to begin with – he swallowed his pride and let Arthur continue.

“We need to talk. I won’t say it again: Get in the lift. Please."

Merlin swallowed back another question and gave a jerky nod, before following the Archangel -- wings stowed away God knows where and painfully, elegantly official in his Armani getup -- and watched Arthur wave a hand in the air.

At first, Merlin thought the man had gone bonkers, waving at no one.

But then the flashing red over the doors stopped. The numbers froze. In the blink of an eye, the lift doors rippled and changed appearance, switching from stainless steel to solid wood. Door handles appeared, gilded and polished like new. They sort of looked like the ones...

"We can speak freely in the Hall of Contracts," Arthur said without looking back. His voice sounded stilted, like he was choosing his words very carefully for fear of being overheard by outside ears.

Merlin stepped into the lift behind Arthur, careful not to so much as brush shoulders with the low-key seething Archangel, and remained silent for the entirety of the minute-long, agonizing trip back up.

 

_Ding!_

Instead of sliding open as the other set of doors had done for Merlin, these doors flew outward, like a pair of ghostly servants was giving them the royal welcome.

The doors swung out together to reveal, as Merlin had begun to suspect, the interior of the Imitation Hall of Mirrors-- The Hall of Contracts.

He could only assume that this was a portal they had just used.

And if that was true, didn't that mean Merlin shouldn’t have -- should _not_ have-- been able to so much as open the doors to begin with?

Oh, yeah. They really needed to talk.

 

**-^i^-**

 

Seven Angels – otherwise known as the ones who were constantly in Arthur's company like gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe -- all waited in the middle of the Hall. They'd been expecting Merlin and Arthur.

Naturally, Arthur just had to go big or go home for appearance’s sake. The sight put Merlin off.

If he'd walked into the Hall one month ago to find a stern-faced crew of Angels lined up like a firing squad around the table, his legs would have been jelly. Each man was imposing in his own way, and with the wings, it only upped the intimidation factor.

Merlin, thankfully, had gotten to know at least a few of them by name. He was on friendly terms with the Angel all the way to his right: The first Archangel who actually acted like an Angel, Lancelot. Lancelot was the tan one in the circle of suits, and looked like he could model underwear or cologne or literally _anything_ , as his saliva-inducing stubble (not that Merlin noticed) and windswept brown hair could sell any product under the sun. Merlin had met Lancelot before Gwaine, even, and they got along swimmingly from the very beginning. Merlin had no trouble liking Lancelot.

Merlin had also spoken with Elyan a few times. Elyan was an Archangel who specialized in overseeing which guardian angels went where-- when he wasn't working with Arthur. He was busy down on earth even more than Gwaine, so sightings of Elyan hanging about Upstairs with the rest of the crew were infrequent. But when he did have some time up in the clouds, he was always happy to let Merlin stroll through the gardens alone (when no one was looking).

The others, Merlin knew by face or by the names that Arthur had given him. He couldn't quite match them all up yet.

"What's wrong with talking alone?" Merlin asked, and by way of answer Arthur turned to look at the group of seven in a silent apology. _Please excuse this idiot of a mortal. Not to fear, I’ll deal with him personally._ A couple of the Angels broke the perfect synchronicity of blank expressions to glance at each other: the one who looked like he was a winged pro wrestler in his spare time, and the blonde one with the sideburns that Merlin vaguely remembered as Geraint, who specialized in God only knew.

Merlin definitely didn't want to know.

"Men, if we could have a moment please." Arthur didn't wait for anyone to answer. His footsteps echoed ominously over the marble while he walked languidly towards the singular table.

Merlin watched as each Angel silently filed out of the hall, possibly to wait in a room adjacent, or possibly to do another disappearing act and pop back in later. He caught the Angel called Leon smirking before turning around to exit last, leaving Merlin to only guess at his intentions. Merlin wasn't sure if the smirk was aimed towards him, Arthur, or the both of them.

Merlin felt brutally out of place and awkward when it was him, Arthur, and seven Archangels circling the table in the foreboding _hauteur_ of the Hall. That, coupled with the expectation that Arthur would be pacing the floor like a seasoned interrogation officer while he asked questions, made Merlin feel doubly anxious.

But once Arthur had dismissed his team and dropped some of the formal pretense, the feeling was quelled. Here in the Hall, at the very least, they were on much more even ground. They could talk to each other openly. 

That was the beauty of Arthur.

Most of the time, Merlin saw Arthur as an enormous prat. A polite one, and very hospitable all things considered, but still a prat. He matched every blow Merlin threw at him in the form of questions and responded to them with digs of his own, especially when Merlin felt the need to poke fun at Archangels. (But Merlin only did it because he didn't understand how they worked. He couldn’t have known how strongly Arthur felt about joking about his work).

Then there were times when Arthur did things, things that made Merlin feel like they were equals. Friends, even. It was something Merlin could appreciate up here.

 

"It seems you've made for a very odd case in my department,” said Arthur, clasping his hands behind his back. His chin was held high, and his eyes felt like they were burning a hole through Merlin’s rain jacket, as they wouldn’t meet Merlin’s eyes. “I deal with a slew of responsibilities, including stitching up loopholes in mortal contracts and, in this case, a breach in code. You found a portal."

"Okay, yeah, but you’ve got to know that I didn't _mean_ t--"

"More to the point,” Arthur held up a silencing hand. Merlin narrowed his eyes, although he complied with the gesture. “You used said portal, and somehow managed to find your way to earth."

"I had no idea it was even a po--"

But Arthur wasn’t going to let him finish. "And, what relieves me as much as it confuses me, is that you managed to _not_ get yourself bloody stuck there. One more minute and I would have been required to leave you wandering the earth for eternity. Is that what you wanted?" His face was quizzical, his eyes wide and borderline frantic. "Were you hoping to remain there forever?"

Arthur looked… distressed. Even his tie was a little crooked, which was very unlike him. The poorly-concealed worry was not a look that Merlin felt suited him, although he couldn’t complain about the tie.

"Well,” Merlin huffed, pausing to wait for the next interjection. There wasn’t one. “I've been _trying_ to tell you that I didn't even find the damned thing on purpose and..." he paused, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "...You were relieved? Why?"

Arthur was silent. For some reason it was all the answer Merlin needed. His face broke into a sly grin.

"What?" he asked, suddenly teasing. "Were you afraid you'd never get to see your favorite little mortal again?"

"I don't pick favorites," Arthur snapped, a little too quickly as he stepped a foot back, giving Merlin his shoulder instead of looking head-on. Merlin's grin spread even wider. He’d struck something.

"Come on," he said, and cast the Angel a shrewd glance when Arthur finally decided to look him in the eye. "You can't tell me you go around doing that whole ‘rolling out the welcome mat’ for every sap who finds his way up here." He turned his head to the side, but his eyes continued to follow Arthur.

Something on the Angel's face, however, erased whatever astute comment Merlin had planned. The grin dwindled. "…There's something you're not telling me,” he said.

"Perhaps, but until we figure this out, that information is classified." Arthur's expression returned to its usual, placid state. Merlin wasn't going to have that.

Fuck it, he just wanted answers. He was going to get them.

Merlin took a step towards Arthur and nearly reached for his arm to spin him around and face him, but thought better of it at the last minute. “What is this, Scotland Yard? Fucking S.I.S.?” Merlin spat, “What’s so classified that I can’t at least try to understand why Heaven has been such a load of shite for me lately?”

When Arthur turned lifted his face to look back, his expression gave Merlin no answers.

"Arthur, please," he said, and the last of the anger died down. His went soft, a plea for someone - _Arthur_ , he hoped - to hear him. He wanted someone to _hear_. Not just listen and nod and give him useless advice, but really hear. Angry tears pent up from all the frustration stung in his eyes, which surprised him. He blinked quickly to clear them away. "Even if it's, I dunno, a violation of your bloody Angel scout’s code or whatever you call it, who would I tell?" He looked at his reflection staring back at him through the buffed finish of the marble; his unchanging, youthful, healthy, _confused_ reflection.

He heard a small sigh echo through the chamber.

Merlin had to wonder how rare it must be, to get this place empty for a private conversation. People were dying... well, all the time. Could Arthur really be so important as to put their arrivals on hold?

 _Oh yeah, that's right,_ thought Merlin miserably. Time worked differently up here.

Maybe time didn't even _apply_ to them, as long as they were sitting within the confines Hall. But that was a thought for later.

"Have a seat," said Arthur, reminding Merlin of the very first day he'd come here. And just like that, he was sitting down in one of two chairs facing each other across the table.

Arthur did likewise, with his spine erect and feet planted firmly on the floor. Merlin didn't have the same boundless energy to look so dignified all the time, try as he might. He slouched in his seat, exhausted. It had been a long day.

The exhaustion that sometimes got to him was something else he didn't see a purpose for in Heaven. He rubbed at the corner of his eye and suppressed a yawn, but only just.

An eyebrow twitched below Arthur's hairline. He'd caught the yawn.

"I need to ask you a few questions," Arthur said, less inquisitive and more authoritative.

"What, is this an interrogation now?"

"Yes."

Merlin bit his tongue, afraid it might mutiny again and interrupt. Of all things, he didn't need an Archangel angry with him.

Arthur appeared calm and collected on the surface, but if there was one thing that Merlin could do well, it was read people. And he could read Arthur like a book -- the man was ready to snap, although Merlin had no idea why. He couldn't help but contemplate the thought that Angels might get stressed out, too. Just like overworked mortals who didn't get paid enough even when they stayed overtime. Arthur definitely seemed like the type to put in overtime.

The façade cracked.

"If I can't even do my job because some _mortal_..." in a complete lapse of character, Arthur let his face drop to his hand, elbow coming to rest on the table.

All at once, Merlin could see everything-- weariness, a sort of desperation, where a silent war raged inside of him as he though he was trying to make sense of one pesky mortal man who couldn’t quite figure out the whole “being dead” gig for what it was worth.

The Archangel appeared perfect at first glance, but like the rest of Heaven he was the world's most chaotic art piece; a happy mess, a sorry statue, the immortal epitome of give, give, give, and never receive.

If Merlin had met Arthur as a mortal, the man would be an overworked businessman with a substantial wad of cash in his bank account, daddy issues, unfulfilled aspirations, and a thirst to prove himself as a leader at the top of the corporate food chain.

The thirst to prove himself would never come to fruition, Merlin liked to imagine, because no matter how hard he tried, Arthur would never make it in the bloody waters of the corporate world with a bleeding heart like his. A well-hidden bleeding heart, sure, but he would be smelled out eventually. Good thing he was up here, and not down there.

As it was, Arthur was clearly doing his job, _more_ , if his demeanor was anything to go by-- If his constant flitting back and forth from Heaven to earth to God knows where was anything to consider.

It was a wonder he ever found time to meet with Merlin at _all_. Perhaps the gardens also shared the same time-bending qualities that he could only guess the Hall possessed. It would explain why they so often met there, instead of somewhere else. Maybe.

Maybe Merlin was Arthur's escape, too.

 

And just as quickly as Arthur had sagged under the weight of so much hidden underneath, he sat up and folded his hands over the table, steepling his fingers, and put the mask back on. It made Merlin want to yell.

"Who are you,” Arthur quizzed, looking dead set on receiving every last detail to the answer.

"That hardly sounded like a question," Merlin deadpanned, but tacked on just for the sake of moving this along, “My name is Merlin Ambrosius. Son on Hunith Jones.”

“And your father?”

“Barely knew him.”

“His name, I mean.” Arthur pulled his chair closer to the table.

“Balinor Ambrosius.”

Arthur’s brow knit. He looked thoughtful. “I know that name,” he said.

“I’m sure you do.” When Arthur gave Merlin a baffled look, Merlin explained, “I mean, Gwaine told me all about how you guys never forget a name. You remember my father’s name…. I suppose he’s dead as well, then,” Merlin muttered with a shrug, but in truth, it was a bit shattering to finally find out what fate his father had met. The only thing he wanted to know was when he’d finally get to _see_ his father – that was, assuming he’d been sent to Heaven, and not somewhere else. Maybe that was too much to hope for.

“Balinor Ambrosius is not a common name. I’ve got only two on the list for deceased, and neither one is any more recent than four decades ago. I’m guessing you knew him quite a bit more recently than forty years ago.”

“Wait – he’s not dead then?” Merlin asked, and he sat up straighter. But Arthur shook his head.

“Where is he?’

Arthur said nothing. He had gone silent, thinking intensely, eyes momentarily glazed over; Merlin could tell already that Arthur wasn’t going to explain bollocks to him under the current circumstances.

Finally, the Archangel snapped out of the reverie. Squaring his shoulders so that he looked even more imposing in his Armani suit and neatly combed hair, Arthur spoke again. "The Hall of Contracts is a centered point of focus that compels anyone within its walls to speak truthfully. You cannot lie here." From the sound of it, Arthur was leading up to something. “If you lie, I will know.”

That information made Merlin's insides squirm. That right there, that made him think twice.

"The Hall _makes_ people tell the truth?” he asked.

“In a way.”

“I don't think you're telling the truth right now," Merlin murmured. A vein near Arthur's temple throbbed.

"What?"

Merlin raised his voice, although it wasn’t strictly necessary. "I said, I don't think you're telling the truth."

 

The silence to follow was deafening.

 

"You would call me a liar?" Arthur hissed, regressing back to intimidation tactics as he leaned across the table, a dark look shadowing his face. Merlin wasn't in the mood.

"No, not entirely," Merlin corrected, and the Angel openly stared at him now, too shocked for words. He had obviously never been _told off_ by a mortal before.

It gave Merlin a thrill, to think he might be the first person to put the Archangel in his place, even just briefly. "I don't think you're _lying_ , not really. I just think you've convinced yourself, because so many people have felt compelled to honesty in here, that you take it to mean it's impossible for someone to lie. But if this is  _really_ Heaven, like you said-”

“I would lie about something like that?”

“Then wouldn't mortals retain their free will, even in death?"

Arthur looked flabbergasted.

"So if that's the case," Merlin continued, "then shouldn't I be free to say what I want?"

"...You are," said Arthur. He looked like he was having some trouble wrapping his head around Merlin's all-too-easy observation -- he probably wasn’t expecting Merlin to possess reasoning skills higher than that of a ten-year-old, and Merlin refused to be degraded to that. "Are you certain you weren’t a lawyer before you were sent up here?” Arthur asked, and he sounded genuinely curious.

Merlin tried for half a smile. “Uni grad with an English degree and manager’s post at a book store, but close enough, I guess.”

Arthur seemed to shake off the lingering bemusement and returned to the subject matter at hand. “But one normally does feel some level of compulsion, here in the Hall. You may speak as you wish, but if we're to get anywhere with you - if you want any answers at all - you will speak honestly." From the sound of it, that was the final word.

“As if I have any reason to lie,” Merlin muttered.

Arthur could let Merlin say what he wanted. Hell, he could let Merlin get up and walk out of here right now, if it came to that.

But that wouldn't get Merlin shite. It certainly wouldn't get him any answers. So he took a deep breath, and he nodded for Arthur to carry on.

Arthur nodded back with solemnity, a mutual understanding floating between them. Thin and tenuous, but it was there. Trust. The returned nod was probably meant as if to say, "That's more like it."

Merlin hadn’t even an inkling of doubt that Arthur was as selfless as they came. He could see it, could hear it in the way he spoke about mortals, even if he sometimes made jokes at the expense of Merlin’s own mortality. Arthur was a good man.

And he should be, considering he was an Archangel. It seemed like common sense more than anything.

Merlin almost went so far as to tell this to Arthur – for some reason, he knew he could trust the man not to laugh at him for it. But he ended up keeping the thought to himself.

 

"I’ve had a look through your files. Your situation is much more complex than I’d anticipated.  I’d appreciate if you kept what is said in here strictly confidential until you are instructed otherwise." 

"Just a minute, I have files? Do I get to see them?" Merlin couldn’t see any reason for Angels to need files. He’d assumed their memories were already perfect. But it was what it was.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. It was the sternest "shut up" Merlin had ever gotten through one look alone. Merlin scowled, even though he did shut up.

"According to everything we have on you, you're not even supposed to be up here yet."

Merlin's jaw went slack.

He tried to say something, but it came out jumbled. After a couple tries he managed to say, "I'm not… what?"

"So you don't know anything about this?" Arthur deadpanned. Merlin shook his head violently.

"What!" Merlin spluttered. "Did I know -- what do you mean by that? How _could_ I?"

 

It made no sense, none at all. He wasn’t supposed to be up here? Sure, maybe he'd already been thinking the same exact thing, but he hadn’t known that Heaven could've made a _mistake_. There were no mistakes up here, it was practically the Archangels’ tagline. Perfect was the whole point.

"But... I died, right?” Merlin needlessly pointed out, “The pneumonia and-- Our insurance wouldn't cover hospital treatment for more than a week, the doctors-"

"Lied. Whoever your so-called doctors were, they lied." Arthur spoke slowly, calmly. "The insurance was enough, therefore you should have remained in hospital an extra week, received sufficient care, then left healthy and ready to live another sixty-eight years of your life." He sounded controlled, unaffected even, but his face betrayed just how much this news was upsetting him, almost as much as it was taking its effect on Merlin.

He could have lived well into his nineties. He could've been happy. Merlin could have lived into his  _nineties._

"Someone wanted you dead, Merlin."

“That’s not possible,” Merlin breathed. He thought he might be hyperventilating and made an effort to take even, steady breaths. He didn't think it was possible, because- because it really _wasn’t_. He’d never known someone who despised him _that_ much.

“Well,” said Arthur, taking on the tone that one would normally take when carefully explaining something to a small child, “it’s either that, or Death made a mistake.” He canted his head forward and lowered his voice, severe. “Death does not make mistakes, Merlin.”

Was it appropriate for Merlin to be feeling relieved, right now? After all, now they knew for certain that he’d been sent up too early, so perhaps they could still send him back…

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Arthur, leaning back in his chair as he folded his hands over one knee. His eyes looked sad. “It’s too late to send you back." Merlin opened his mouth to protest but realized it wouldn't do any good. "We can't bring the dead back to life, it hasn’t been done since the time of Christ, and even then it was a freak occurrence. You were buried weeks ago. Your body…” he winced. Merlin did, too. He’d been trying very hard not to think about that lately; the idea that somewhere, his body was six feet under, wearing a suit that his mother probably splurged on with money that she could have put towards paying bills. His body, waxy-looking and cold and stiff in a casket, decaying…

“It wouldn’t be appropriate,” Arthur finished lamely, switching focus away from the morbidly disturbing nature of the subject.

Someone wanted Merlin dead. They wanted him dead because… because they needed him up here, instead of on earth? Who would _want_ Merlin dead? He wasn’t exactly a disliked person. In fact, most of the people he’d ever met loved him dearly, would do _anything_ to make sure he was safe and loved. He didn't know  that many people to begin with. It didn’t add up. But then, most things up here didn’t add up. He realized he'd said the last part aloud, because Arthur heard him.

“Nothing, Merlin,” said Arthur, shaking his head, “nothing about you adds up.”

 

**-^i^-**

 

The contract, the funeral, and now this.

“What’s going to happen then?” Merlin whispered. He fidgeted with his fingers, clasping and unclasping them over the table, tapping out a random rhythm against the wood, staring at the shiny finish and biting his lip in thought. “I’m just going to stay up here forever?”

“There’s really no other option,” said Arthur. His voice was warmer, gentler, floating into Merlin’s space to offer comfort. Merlin couldn’t deny how thankful he was that Angels could do that, just immediately know when that sort of thing was needed. Even if Arthur was the stoniest Angel Merlin had met, he was still an Angel. Inherently good. Generous by default.

“Heaven puts a glamour on mortals. Only Angels can see past it, since we can’t stand perfection just about as much as you.” He nodded in Merlin's direction. “Our Father created us in His image, much like he did for you and all other mortals. The difference is that we were made for Heaven, and you for earth. Now,” said Arthur, like he was settling in for quite a lengthy explanation, “While you think Heaven is ‘nice,’ you aren’t exactly held with the same captivation, you don’t feel indulged, couldn’t understand the draw of spending eternal life in a perfect world where everything is shaped to your every whim and nothing is a surprise. Am I right in saying that?"

Merlin swallowed. His silence was enough confirmation.

Merlin shouldn't be able to see through this "glamour."

But he did. And he didn't know why.

"I told you what my job is, to some degree. A lot of the time, it's writing out contracts and signing off on treaties from different religious bodies, like the age-old Pagan denomination of heavenlies or the Buddhist representatives who pop by the pearly gates every once in a century or so, have check in about that whole world peace thing, to which the response is always, 'Near impossible, but we're working on it.'"

Merlin chuckled, even with the air of conspiracy and unsettling news hanging above their heads.

"That wasn't a joke," said Arthur. Merlin quickly shut up. “I'm also an investigator of sorts -- what can I say, I wear a lot of hats." Merlin thought that maybe this was Arthur's way of trying to be funny. If so, he had an incredibly dry sense of humour. "So far, we have no leads on anyone who would wish you harm, and for now the only choice you have is to remain right where you are.”

“In Heaven. You do know I hate it here, don’t you?” Merlin challenged.

“I’ve noticed.”

“So you’ll be doing something about it?”

“There’s no changing Heaven, I can't make it 'work' for you.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “So _I’m_ the problem.”

“Now you’re just trying to start an argument.”

“I want to go _home.”_

“This _is_ your home now,” Arthur snapped, slamming his hands on the table as he stood up. The sound of the chair scraping over the marble hurt Merlin’s teeth. “I just told you that we’re looking into it, or have you not been listening? I’m asking you not to test my patience. It might take a while, or it could take no time at all. But however long it takes, I swear to you that we will fix this. I will fix this.”

Merlin’s heart stuttered. So that proved it – Arthur cared for one, insignificant mortal in a sea of billions of others, even if Merlin was far from perfect. He exhaled, closing his eyes to center in on Arthur’s answer. “You’ll fix this,” he said, “so what will happen once you fix this, if I can’t go back to earth?”

“You’ll stop seeing past the Glamour. You’ll be happy.”

“Living in a perfect world won’t make me happy, Arthur. That’s not what I want and you know it. I want to see my mother. And Will. And everyone else I’ve ever loved.” He opened his eyes and caught Arthur’s with his. “I never got to say goodbye.”

Arthur’s mouth was a thin line again. The stoic expression had returned. “Scores of others never did, either,” he murmured, but it sounded more like he was trying to make himself feel better, and not just Merlin. Then he pulled his gaze from Merlin’s eyes and looked at the crucifix hanging on the wall at the end of the Hall. It seemed to ground him, because the next time he spoke he sounded more sure of himself. “You might not think you’ll be happy with perfection, but believe me, every single person who’s arrived here has been no less than completely satisfied.”

Merlin rolled his eyes.

Arthur sighed. “Heaven takes a few trillion-odd forms, depending on who’s looking,”

“Save it, Gwaine already told me all about that.”

“I’m just elaborating on what he already told you,” Arthur justified.

The empty Hall was completely quiet, save the conversation between the Angel and the dead man.

The light coming from the chandeliers was dimmed, and the sound of footsteps echoed off the walls every time Arthur took a step. Merlin didn’t hear any other voices, even though he’d thought maybe the other seven were waiting in another room. Now that he thought about it, he really doubted a bunch of Archangels would just wait around in a room playing cards until they were summoned again.

Squaring his shoulders, Arthur turned and took his seat in the chair again. “For someone who was raised in Ancient Greece,” he explained, continuing where he left off, “the deceased might see it as their own Mount Olympus, complete with gods and everything – tidbit for the day: I’m formally known to the deceased ancient Romans as Sol Invictus. One of two sun gods.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” said Arthur, smirking across the table. He wasn’t lying.

Ancient Roman sun god and Archangel extraordinaire? He'd prefer Arthur as he was now, without an extra status thrown in. Heaven knew the man’s head was already too big for the rest of his body. “But that doesn’t make any sense,” Merlin said, “Isn’t that sort of blasphemy to be a part of one religion and pose as a figure for another?

“Back in the ancient times it didn't matter so much.” Arthur gave a shrug. “Religious ties were... looser. The Archangels weren't really gods, but that was how the Romans saw us anyway.”

Merlin had to laugh at that - of course, of-fucking-course, _any_ one would look at Arthur and think, _Yep, that's one hell of a god, that is. More stunning than anything made on this earth. Lads, there’s our new sun deity._

Naturally.

Maybe it was the golden hair and all-around glow that qualified him as a supposed sun god. But whatever the reasoning had been, Merlin couldn't really blame the Romans.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, so serious that Merlin could do nothing but listen and take everything Arthur said as truth. “We’ll find out who the cause of this was. It was a mistake for you to have been sent here before your time, and I'm sorry."

" 'S not your fault," Merlin said, letting his hands come to rest on the table.

"Maybe, but I’ll still see to it personally that you don’t spend your eternity feeling miserable. Your mother will be all right, and I’m sure your friends will be, too. Everyone grieves. She'll recover.”

Merlin nodded slowly, although the memories bombarding his brain at Arthur’s mention of his mother was not making for a pleasant experience.

“It won’t always be like this. But you have to trust me.”

Merlin fought back a wave of tears and looked around the Hall, focusing on the chandeliers, the life-size statues of saints that he didn’t know the names of, the crucifix on the wall that held no meaning to him other than a brief story he’d heard about the man called Jesus and his raising from the dead, and the tapestries on the walls that depicted scenes from a story, possibly the same one.

Then he reined in all of the negative emotions that plagued and tormented him with every mention of his past life, and he looked back at Arthur, and said, “I trust you.”

 

**-^i^-**

 

Hunith sat by the window.

Nine people went to the funeral, not including Hunith.

Nine. The next-door neighbors and their three daughters, Merlin’s boss from the local book shop, old Mrs. Dodgson, whose dog Merlin walked every Wednesday and Sunday, and the middle-aged French couple who owned the _patisserie_ down the road and knew Merlin because he came in every Saturday to buy a pastry.

Nine people and Hunith attended Merlin’s funeral.

A week later, and she was still shattered that so few people had come. Grieving, miserable, and completely shattered.

Will Evans – practically her second son and Merlin’s closest friend – was still missing, Merlin’s father was still missing, and Hunith didn’t know what to do. She was alone.

She’d long since cried herself out, sitting at the table by the window to watch as the sun slowly went down, reflecting on all the times her boy would walk in to find her with her chin in her hand, and ask, “Do you want me to make tea, mum?” “Yes, Merlin, that would be fine.”

Another dry sob wracked her body, and she buried her face in her hands once again.

When she couldn’t stand the thought of sitting and doing nothing, she busied herself with fixing a cup of tea, turning on the stove and putting the kettle on. It was only a few minutes before the kettle began to whistle, steaming at the spout. She reached for the little teapot on the windowsill and dropped a teabag inside.

The sound of heavy footsteps over the linoleum floor startled her, making to turn around.

 

She almost dropped the teapot on the kitchen floor.

 

Hunith paled. “No. It’s not you, it’s not…” she whispered, backing away towards the counter and setting the teapot down down with shaking hands.

In the doorway of the kitchen was a man, almost a head taller than Hunith, with a rugged face, a beard speckled with grey, and a mess of white scars along his jaw.

“Hunith,” he said, bringing his hands out of the pockets of his trench coat. He raised them calmly, palms up.

“No!” Hunith wailed, clutching at the first thing she could get her hands on, which turned out to be a dish towel. She flung the towel at the man’s face, where it connected harmlessly before falling to the ground. The man blinked, but didn’t appear angered by the outburst. In fact, he seemed to have been expecting it, and still he stood there, planted in the doorway.

 

“You’re real,” said Hunith, so soft she almost thought she hadn’t said anything after all, and her eyes widened in shock. “How are you here.” She coughed, blinking away the last of her tears and said – _demanded –_ to the man, ordering instead of asking, “How are you here?”

“I can’t stay for long,” said the man, and he looked sheepishly at the floor, where the dish towel lay innocuously by his feet. “I’m really not supposed to be here.”

“Why _are_ you here? Where have you been? _Seventeen years,_ Balinor! You left us without any sort of warning, you left your _son,_ and you never said goodbye. Y-you’ve been gone seventeen years.” Her voice wobbled, but she kept going. “Explain yourself. _Now_.”

Hunith seethed, gnashing her teeth while her apparition of a husband continued to look at her with all the reverence in the world. He sighed, looking almost wistful, and still he did not move from his place in the doorway. Like he respected Hunith too much to take another step closer to her, which was very wise indeed.

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell you, you’d have thought I’d gone mad.”

“Try me,” said Hunith. She didn’t move from her spot by the sink, staring her husband down.

“There are some things that can’t be explained that easily, Hunith,” he answered with a sad smile. “I left for Merlin’s own good. If they’d found me…” he shook his head. “I heard about Merlin, and I had to come."

"Damn right you did."

"It’s not the end, Hunith, I know it’s not.”

“What are you on about?” Hunith snapped, trembling. “What are you saying? Our son is _dead,_ Balinor! He’s … he’s…” she hadn’t said it aloud until now.

She’d felt grief before, so much of it in the past two weeks alone, but now it came back to her with full force, like a blow to the gut. She sank to her knees on the floor and let her head fall forward as her shoulders heaved with fresh sobs.

Only then did Balinor cross the kitchen floor, kneeling by her side to put a gentle hand on Hunith’s shoulder. She shrugged the hand away, but Balinor didn’t budge. “Hunith,” he murmured, “I had to come. I had to warn you.”

“Warn me about _what?”_ she hissed. She wouldn’t look up. _“_ I’ve already lost everything. I’ve lost my baby, and you’re going to leave me again, too.”

“For your own safety,” her husband insisted, although he sounded just as torn. “I left for the same reason I’m here now. To make sure you’re safe. There are whisperings, Hunith, rumours that have been spreading amongst those who would see the world fall into chaos. Spirits and demons, _creatures_ who would see us all dead so that they can take the world for themselves.”

A choking noise came from Hunith. She lifted her head to glare at her husband. “Now I know you really have gone mad," she said. "You’re mental is what you are. Have you been released from an asylum? Is that why you’ve been gone all this time? Why you're here now, of all times?”

Balinor ran his hands through untrimmed hair, clearly exhausted and frustrated. He was frantic, attempting to make his wife understand. “I sound mad, I know I do. I _know_ , Hunith, and I know that this isn’t easy--”

“You wouldn’t know the first thing about it not being easy!” Hunith spat, her expression thorny and formidable. “You _left_ us.”

“And all I’ve ever done, I’ve done it for you and Merlin. I had to come and warn you."

" _Warn_ me!"

"You need to get out of here." Balinor looked around the room, eyes filled with the paranoia of a man who was being followed. "Go to the church on west road, tell the priest that I sent you. He’ll know what to do.”

Even through tears, Hunith scoffed. “Oh? And what makes you so certain that I’ll just blindly do as you say, after you’ve been as good as dead for the past seventeen years?” She sniffed wetly, wiping the back of her hand across her cheek. There was nothing more she could do or say. If Balinor had returned just to tell her this, surely there must be something going on. She remembered how he’d been, just before he left. Talking about carrying on the work he’d been involved in before he married.

Balinor had connections – “special connections,” he called them. Hunith never came to know who these connections were.

“You just need to trust me.”

“And what will happen then?” she asked, feeling tired. Balinor slowly stood up, taking Hunith’s hand to guide her up with him.

“I can’t tell you that. But I needed to warn you, Hunith. Something is after our son.”

“Our son is--”

“ _Just_  …” he sighed. “...Just let me explain. Please.”

Hunith went silent.

“I’ve been listening in to the ones on the other side.”

“Who?”

“I'm sorry but I can’t tell you."

Hunith sniffed again. She didn't believe him. She couldn't.

"But every single entity I’ve come across has spoken of something big," Balinor continued, "something that’s going to take place sooner than even I suspected. Our son’s name has been mentioned. His and another **:** Arthur.”

The name meant nothing to Hunith. But Balinor looked severe, and whatever he was talking about, it sent off warning bells. Hunith grasped her husband’s hand and looked him in the eye, lifting her chin in a show of incredible strength and dignity.

“You listen to me, you demented, stubborn arse," she said, sticking her index finger roughly into her husband's chest, "If you get yourself killed with nonsense like this, so help me god, I will drag you from the depths of hell just to kill you again.”

The threat rolled off the man like oil on tarp. “You believe me, don’t you?” he whispered. "You do."

“I believe what you said about keeping your family safe. And believe _me_ when I say I will hold you to your word, Balinor.”

A genuine grin broke out on Balinor’s haggard face. “I would expect nothing less.”

He leaned forward boldly, even though Hunith was still a ticking bomb, one that could go off in mere seconds if he took one false step, and he pressed a delicate kiss to her forehead that so contradicted the roughness of his renegade features. The lines where he pressed his lips eased a little, and Hunith looked about ten years younger for it. Balinor leaned back, his smile softer; the corners of his eyes crinkled where it reached. “I know you’ll be all right, you’ve always been a soldier, Hunith. Go, get yourself to safety within the week. I know I’ve done you wrong. So much wrong. But this is a matter of life or death, and as much as you must hate me right now, you have to trust me. Do you trust me, Hunith?”

“…I trust you.”

 

 

 


	3. Not His Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, the word count on this chapter blew UP. Damn thing's pushing 16k, I hope you all know this chapter took up a good 38 pages on a Word doc. What. The frick. Anyway, this is the last chapter of part 1, but I've got much more planned, so stay tuned! Thank you so much to all the people reading and leaving comments, you guys seriously help me out so much and motivate me to keep writing.
> 
> P.s. My tumblr is dameverite, so if anyone wants to see more illustrations and possible sneak peeks of future chapters, check it out! And feel free to send a message if you're curious about updates. Thanks!

 

 

 

_I know my body’s of so frail a kind,_

_As force without, fevers within, can kill;_

_I know the heavenly nature of my mind,_

_But ‘tis corrupted both in wit and will._

_I know my soul hath power to know all things_

_Yet she is blind and ignorant in all;_

_I know I am one of nature’s little kings,_

_Yet to the least and vilest things I am in thrall._

_I know my life’s a pain, and but a span;_

_I know my sense is mocked with everything;_

_And to conclude, I know myself a man,_

_Which is a proud, and yet a wretched thing._

_-Sir John Davies_

 

 

**-^i^-**

Arthur sat alone in the hall, triple-checking a new contract for loopholes. The Heavens were about to receive a very important deceased (a V.I.D. as someone in the team had started calling them as a joke), a member of the Peace Corps from Albania. The woman was, regrettably, about to be killed while helping to build a new house in South Sudan.

The foundation had been dug to an insubstantial depth and width, and the entire framework of the house was predicted to collapse approximately….

Now.

At the same moment, all electricity on the west half of Britain cut out.

 

The Gates of Heaven – the portal that exclusively flung the deceased into their one-way trip to the Hall of Contracts – stopped opening.

The Gates were stuck.

 

Gwaine barged into the Hall, shaken up.

Arthur could tell it was bad, because the man had his wings out. Gwaine never had his wings out.

“I only just made it up here,” he huffed, doubling over once he made it through the doors, “and that’s only because the portal recognized me. But Arthur, it doesn’t look good.”

“Tell me exactly what’s going on,” Arthur bit out, already out of his chair. He’d felt it, too; the surge of power from the other side, followed by a quick _sting_ of raw energy, and then, a block. The Gates. Something was wrong with the Gates.

“You’ve got a huge assembly of newly deceased and they’re just hanging around downstairs, wondering what’s happened to them. If we don’t do something, those souls are going to be stuck down there forever.” Gwaine’s wings flapped once, making him look as though he were about to take flight. He normally didn’t drop by the Hall for anything. Ever. The fact that he was here now meant that this was important not just to the Archangels, but all other divisions.

“I’ll send notice to the Thrones, I’m sure they can make an exception.” Arthur ran a nervous hand through his hair. “This was not His will,” he muttered angrily, “It’s a breach in code, the Thrones will surely understand. We’ll figure this out.” He didn’t know what was going on—and he didn’t _like_ not knowing. It wasn’t something that normally happened to him.

“Right, and just tell them we somehow managed to fuck up for the first time in seventeen hundred years, while we’re at it,” came a voice from behind.

It was Geraint, appearing out of thin air next to the table, standing at attention. His expression was cloudy. A moment later, the rest of the crew had assembled in front of them. Gwaine made a sour face and edged away from the table in distaste, slowly folding up his wings. “Besides, I’m sure they already know,” Geraint added as an afterthought.

“Well, have you tried oiling the hinges?” Gwaine asked innocently.

“There’s not…. They aren’t actually bloody _gates_ , Gwaine!” Arthur looked like he was on the verge of a conniption. This didn’t bode well for any of them.

“You think I don’t know that, geez. _Forgive_ me for trying to lighten the m--”

“More bad news,” Lancelot chimed in, appearing at the table just as his wings snapped shut and vanished. “Lights are out over half of Britain. Source of the power outage appears to have originated somewhere in Bristol. This was no terrorist attack; this is something celestial, and it’s big.”

Arthur suppressed a frustrated groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Great,” he said, “just brilliant.”

“Gonna be a team job then,” Percival said from his spot by Lucan, “just like old times. I like it.”

“Since when do you find this fun?” Galahad muttered.

“I think it’s pretty fun,” Lucan argued, a sly grin teasing his lips. Light brown hair curled at the nape of his neck, a bit mussed like he’d only just returned from having... well. He always looked like trouble, and he was usually the one to enjoy dishing it out himself.

“You would,” Galahad griped back.

Arthur, of course, was the one to break up the conversation that had somehow managed to spiral into childish banter.  It normally did, but that was beside the point. “We _all_ have to go, no ‘and’s, ‘if’s or ‘but’s.”

“Guess I’ll have to tell Merlin he can’t use the gardens today,” Elyan mumbled, sounding disappointed. Everyone’s heads snapped to look at him.

“What?” asked Arthur. “You said he could do _what?”_

“Merlin always asks if he can take a walk in the gardens.” Elyan shrugged. He didn’t look at all apologetic in the face of seven other Archangels looking at him like he’d broken the rules. Which, according to Archangel code, he kind of had. Not that he seemed to care. “I don’t see the harm in it.”

“They’re off limits to mortals, what gave you the right to say he could do that?” Arthur asked, lowering his voice to a much deadlier octave.

Elyan held his ground. “Um, I help run the gardens? And honestly, it’s not like he’ll _break_ anything. Unless he’s got a knack for finding stray pairs of gardening shears to hack up the topiaries, in which case, I’d ban him for an eternity and a half myself.”

“You’ll have to tell Merlin that the gardens are off limits when he’s left alone,” Arthur snapped. “It’s just policy, Elyan. There are a slew of smaller portals in there, he might find one and-”

“Tell me what?”

Everyone turned from Elyan to spot the figure hovering in the doorway.

“And speak of the devil…” Lucan muttered as they all watched Merlin step cautiously into the hall, looking a little out of place. Gwaine grinned.

“Merlin! Just in time to tell our reigning princess what we think of his _policies.”_

“I hope that wasn’t a euphemism,” Merlin answered, and headed for Gwaine without regard to anyone else, except maybe Arthur, keeping his hands in his pockets. He looked to be avoiding the round table at all costs.

“We haven’t been one hundred percent honest with you, Merlin,” Elyan piped up before anyone else could take the floor. The others glowered, although none made a move to speak up. So Elyan took it as a sign to continue. However, all he said after that was, “Tell him, Arthur.”

Merlin grinned at Arthur. “Keeping secrets, are we?”

 _Mortals._ Really.

 

**-^i^-**

 

Merlin groaned. “Please, for all that is good and holy, do not tell me that _demons_ are real as well.”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"About as real as my arse is a godsend," Gwaine said. "Yeah, pretty real."

Arthur quietly buried his face in his hand, done with the world, done with his job. Done with everything, really. If gluttony wasn’t one of the deadly sins, he’d be sending for a tray of stiff drinks. And he wouldn’t be sharing. "It’s got to do with my job.”

“What, did you lie about the Angel code or something? Is this about my accidental field trip to earth?”

“The flying fuck is he talking about--”

“Would you _please_ ,” Arthur whispered, running his hands through his hair. Gwaine shut up immediately. When Arthur was in a state, no one screwed around and lived to tell the tale. “Just let me.... I work in demon assassination. Does that make more sense?"

“Very funny,” said Merlin. He turned as if to look for some sort of confirmation that was all just a sick joke, but each and every suit wore the same expression: one that said, ‘Yeah, we waste celestial bad guys. Fun times.’

“My squadron is a specialist group that targets demons. Amongst other things.”

Merlin snorted. “Sure.”

“I’m so glad you think this is funny, because we’re fairly certain they’ve already targeted half of the world with more of this electrical outage nonsense. They’re too much effort to watch all the time and they're more trouble than they're worth, but dealing with them happens to be part of our job description. Do you think unnecessary deaths are something to laugh at, Merlin?”

Merlin’s blue eyes went wide, and he held up his hands. "All right, all _right,”_ he insisted, “Jesus, all right-”

“Watch it.”

“Fine. _Geez,”_ Merlin corrected. _“_ I believe you. So… so your job is to kill all of them?" he asked.

"Well not _all_ of them, that would be impossible. Some evil is necessary to balance out the good."

A necessary evil. Merlin was beginning to love just how literal some things could be when it came to Heaven and hell, and everything in between. The thought of demon assassins – _Angel_ demon assassins – amused him. Apparently it showed on his face, because the next minute Arthur snapped, “Don’t look so pleased, Merlin, it’s not nearly as entertaining as you’d think. Believe me.”

“Sure,” said Merlin, “because hunting demons must be such dull work.”

“Not dull,” Arthur answered in a pointedly bored drawl, “but it can be very messy. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take this as a joke.”

“So why’re you telling me all of this, anyway?”

“You were in the right place at the right time. Just a note for future reference: mortals aren’t technically permitted to just waltz into the Hall without a summons.”

“Noted,” Merlin said, not sounding like he would ever take the advice to heart.

Arthur huffed, before turning to address his team.

His team, who all wore the same or similar expressions on their faces: amusement, or something lewder, like the look on Gwaine’s. All wore plainer clothing, which caught Merlin off guard, as he never expected an Archangel to be caught dead in anything less than designer wool and fine leather shoes. When Merlin looked down, he discovered not business loafers, but running trainers. All were plain black, and each pair looked brand new, save Gwaine's, who always wore the same, rattier clothing.

Their clothes could have been new as well, although the Archangels seemed to be trying very hard to look as though they were just your everyday, average Joe mortals out for a stroll.

Then Merlin caught movement from Lucan, whose hand reached down to brush back the corner of his navy jacket for just a moment. A moment was all Merlin needed to catch sight of gold metal glinting in a holster, strapped to the belt around the man’s waist. So, not only were they dangerous by themselves, but the Angels were armed, too.

"If you're going down to earth, you're taking me with you," Merlin said. His voice sounded a lot more confident than he was, but he hoped it would be enough. If something had gone wrong, and his mum was in trouble...

The expression on Arthur's face told him this could only end with him even more dead than the amount of dead he already was.

"A moment, please," Arthur said. The controlled calm only added to the danger crackling around him.

Arthur rounded on Merlin, and ushered him towards the closed entrance of the Hall. Maybe he assumed the rest of the team couldn’t hear them, but the look on Gwaine’s face told Merlin that it was anything but.

They were eavesdropping. And not ashamed of it, either.

 

But as Arthur had his back to them, Merlin could only guess that he had no idea. Probably assumed that his team would give them at least some window of privacy; no such luck, of course.

“This isn’t a game, Merlin," he hissed, "I’ll not have a repeat of last time, if you go with us-”

“-The rules won’t apply to him,” Lancelot interrupted from his spot a little further away from the table than the rest of the Angels. Merlin and Arthur both turned around at the same time to stare at Lancelot, who shrugged. “What?” he asked, playing the honesty card. “If he’s traveling with Angels, the rules don’t apply. Just saying.”

Merlin gave Lancelot a grateful smile, which was returned in kind. “So I’ll be fine as long as I’ve got Archangel supervision,” he singsong-ed to Arthur, looking smug.

Arthur turned back to glare at him. “You’re not going, and I have the final say.”

The rest of the team looked at each other in amusement. Oh, this ought to be good.

“What, are you my mum now?” said Merlin, looking only more determined. “You can’t stop me from going. If you leave me here, I’ll just find another portal myself, and then I’ll be stuck down on earth for the rest of eternity. Would you prefer that? Since I hear I’ve been nothing but a pain in the arse up here, anyway.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Arthur, and his tone took on something much more serious than their usual banter. Then he took one stride in Merlin’s direction and crowded into his space. “I don’t _believe_ you.”

Merlin sneered, leaning in even closer. Now they were eye to eye, and the tension was so, utterly palpable, there were practically sparks of electricity crackling around them as they faced each other like they were readying themselves to duel to the death. “Try me,” he hissed.

Arthur didn’t miss the very real warning in his voice. Merlin was serious. With a disbelieving shake of his head, Arthur asked, “Do you ever do as you’re told?”

He didn’t move from his spot at all, refusing to be the first to back away, but Merlin knew he had already won.

Merlin grinned. “Not really.”

Still, neither one moved.

“This is going to be dangerous,” said Arthur, “I don’t think you realize how dangerous this is probably going to be.”

“And?” Merlin challenged, “What if the thing that caused this is the same thing that wanted me dead? What about that, Arthur?”

“I know we’d like to think we’re all as important as that, Merlin, but I seriously doubt-”

“But _what if?”_ Merlin caught Arthur’s eye, pleading silently with everything he had. “You made a promise,” he whispered. Arthur, whose mouth had opened in preparation to object, shut it again. “If you want to do everything in your power to make sure I’m happy, you’ll let me go with you. My mother’s down there, Arthur. Please.”

When both of them turned back around to face the rest of the team, the eight Angels were already staring back at them. Glee was written all over Leon’s face. Gwaine looked like he’d been the one who’d won the argument, not Merlin.

The rest of them… well, Merlin didn’t want to try reading them all, thanks very much. Knowing the way they acted around each other, and around Arthur, this could only end in some level of embarrassment.

"Fine,” Arthur snapped, after another minute of staring at the wall, looking past Merlin in a show of deep concentration. He probably didn't feel like facing Merlin and his overly smug expression. "He's coming with us," he said, loud enough for everyone in the Hall. As if he needed to speak up; everyone was already listening in.

Leon looked at Arthur like he'd gone mad. "But you said— He's a _mortal_ , Arthur. Even if he were able to return to Heaven with us, how would he survive in a portal if he’s under contract, anyway?” He shook his head. “A mortal can’t operate one the same way an Angel can. Death hasn't changed that."

"He's used a portal before. I don't think he'll get sucked into limbo."

"Here's hoping," said Lance, looking from Arthur to Merlin in concern.

"How's that possible? You're saying _he_ " Geraint pointed at Merlin, "can work a portal? Without his soul getting burned up like kindling, you mean."

"God only knows how he did it the first time," Arthur said, "but something tells me it wasn't a one-off. Merlin," he turned to look at the man in question, "if you're absolutely sure about this -- I mean, I obviously won't make you, and neither will any of the rest of us, and you have to understand that we're still working out the loose ends for who we're going up against, and I..." he was starting to ramble.

"I'm going down there," Merlin said, resolute. Arthur stopped short. "And besides," Merlin added with a sly quirk of his lips, "It's dangerous down there. Can't have you going alone, you might get lost."

Someone snorted, maybe Elyan, and Arthur turned an eye on the Angel with a thorny look. The rest of the team glanced at each other knowingly, but Merlin, who absolutely noticed it and absolutely didn't care, had eyes only for Arthur as the Archangel began to snap off orders.

“If we’re all done flirting, then,” said Gwaine. Arthur bristled. God help them all, why did Gwaine have to do this  _now?_

“We were—there is no _flirting,_ Gwaine, I’m not in the mood for cherubic humor.” 

“’S not just cherubim who know flirting when they see it, my friend.” He was pushing it. Merlin knew he was pushing it, and Gwaine, as full of pure mischief as he was, rarely ever pushed it.

“Do you _want_ to come with us or not?” Arthur snapped.

“You’ve already signed me on, I’m stuck with you, mate.”

“Well, that settles it then,” Lancelot spoke up as he calmly zipped his windbreaker over a crimson t-shirt. Merlin was thankful for the interruption, as he’d begun to turn a bit pink already. “When do we leave?”

“Immediately.”

 

**-^i^-**

 

Gaius Muirden arrived at his niece’s home one day after Balinor’s sudden reappearance.

He'd been a day late to Merlin’s funeral, apologizing profusely for not being able to catch a flight back from Australia on time. He came and went from the Ambrosius household, bringing in baked goods some days, other days lugging in boxes of old photographs. Of Him, and Hunith, of Merlin, of their family. When it was particularly bad, he would stay overnight. God knew Hunith needed the company.

And after Balinor showed his face, Hunith rang up her uncle immediately. Gaius was there in less than the four hours it normally took to drive to London, and he’d brought enough luggage to last him a month.

Hunith, on the other hand, was packing everything. Anything that would fit into a suitcase; if she was going to get herself to safety, she damn well knew she had to be prepared for anything. Gaius offered to help in any way he could, even if that meant assisting in the ironing and folding of freshly washed linens.

It made Hunith weep half with grief and half with the relief of knowing that, at the very least, Merlin had had a loving family to look out for him. Even if she couldn’t see his life all the way through…

“Oh god, I’ve failed him,” she sniffed, accepting the handkerchief that Gaius offered her as she sat on the sofa, a half-folded pillowcase lying crinkled in her lap. Next to the rest of the laundry, a vase of tulips decorated the coffee table. Another of white lilies perfumed the kitchen, where it sat on the windowsill above the sink.

“You did no such thing,” Gaius scolded sternly. But there was no real heat behind the words. “I know you would have given your life for that boy. You did everything you could.”

Just as he was about to put the kettle on for tea, all the lights in the sitting room went out. Along with the rest of the lights in the house.

Bewildered, Gaius told Hunith to stay right where she was, and crossed the sitting room into the darkened kitchen, where he looked out the window just after pushing the vase of lilies out of the way. In the clear night, he could see that every single home had lost power, too. Craning his neck to get a better look, Gaius frowned when he saw that the entire block was out. Not so much as a flickering street lamp.

“It’s not even storming out,” Hunith muttered, knotting the handkerchief in her hands anxiously. “You think they’ve cut the power? I paid the bills on time, I’m sure of it-”

Gaius shook his head and leaned back away from the kitchen window. “Can’t be. It looks like the rest of the street is in the same way.” When he turned around, a worried look pinched his expression. The wrinkles on his face became more prominent when he frowned, eyebrows coming together. “I fear this is something else.”

 

**-^i^-**

 

When it appeared as though all orders had been given, the group of ten crowded together by the Hall’s main doors. Gwaine, apparently an exceptional hand at working portals, rapped on the set of doors seven times. Merlin counted. With a shudder, the doors rippled much like they had for Arthur, down in Rome, and lo and behold… a shiny set of lift doors. A very luxurious, oversized lift, it was revealed when the doors slid open with a _ding_.

They all took the same portal – the thing was complete with one of those fancy interiors that one would find in a five-star hotel; it was the kind where the flooring was smooth and marbled to match the floor of the rest of the hotel when the doors slid open. But of course, they were not on their way to a five-star hotel. They were on their way to Bristol. So it really couldn’t be more different.

 

_“Divisions: Rank 2, eight members. Rank 3, one member. Division undetected, one member. Statuses: Benevolent. Hello, Arthur, Leon, Galahad…”_

The courteous voice from Merlin’s first portal ride filtered into the lift through invisible speakers, going down the list of ten names, and after the first five Merlin could make the inference that it was going in order of rank, starting with Arthur, and ending with Gwaine, then Merlin.

_“Please do not attempt to exit the lift during your descent. You will be arriving at your destination shortly—destination shortly.”_

With all nine Angels and Merlin cramped together, it was hard to move at all, but a few in the group did turn their heads to look at each other, frowning.

That didn’t sound right. Even Merlin knew it.

_“Thank you for usi—thank you for using InterRealms, the number one choice for celest—celestials of all divisions everywhere- everywhere- everywhere- everywhere—”_

Then the feeling of descending motion stopped. They were stuck.

The voice cut out.

“Lift’s jammed,” Leon said, disbelieving.

“Can’t be.” Gwaine stabbed at the button marked ‘G’ a few times with his index finger, before Percival reached over to bat his hand away. “It’s never jammed before, I use this thing all the time,” he muttered. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, out of it.

“We all do.” Arthur squeezed past Lancelot and Leon to get to the front, shoulder to shoulder with Merlin, who wasn’t really sure if he could even move an inch to give him some room.

Shutting his eyes, Arthur reached out a hand, hovering it over the button steadily, and intoned something in a language that definitely wasn’t human. When he opened his eyes, everyone held their breath and waited.

Nothing happened.

Arthur tried again, shutting his eyes tighter. His hand was almost pressing the button, and the chanting became louder this time. The words sent shivers up and down Merlin’s spine.

Again, nothing happened. Just a bunch of dead air and no movement from the lift.

Just as Arthur started to card a hand through his hair, looking frustrated, the lift gave a jolt.

Shortly following the jolt, the feeling of descending started up again- maybe a little shakier than before.

The group of ten collectively breathed a sigh of relief.

“Hopefully that’s the last of that,” said Arthur. Merlin noticed that, even after he’d fixed the lift doing whatever it was Archangels did, Arthur didn’t move back to his place next to Leon, in favor of remaining right next to Merlin. Merlin tried not to dwell on it too much.

 

**-^i^-**

 

The rest of the ride down was relatively uneventful, thankfully, minus the crude jokes traded between Lucan and Geraint.

When the lift _ding_ ed open for them, everyone got out in a hurry, mostly because it got rather stuffy with ten people crowded into such a small space, and brushed themselves off.

After that, it was all checking weapons, loading bullets, and bickering about whose gun was bigger. Angels with guns. Merlin didn't know whether to be amused or scared shitless. He watched as Arthur examined his own, small handgun thoughtfully. It was by far the smallest weapon out of the lot, but if Merlin knew any better, he knew it was by far the deadliest.

Still, he deserved something that complimented his stature a little more…

“We’ll split up,” said Arthur. Everyone holstered their weapons, clasping their arms behind their backs; trained army men. Warriors. “G2s, you’ll take the air.” Geraint and Galahad nodded sharply. “Percival and Lucan, do a sweep of the outer city, and make sure to check each river. L2s, I’ll need you two on standby **;** patrol the area and hone in on the inner city’s CCTVs, look for anything abnormal.” Leon and Lancelot mirrored the nods of Geraint and Galahad.

Then Arthur rounded on the remaining members of the group. “Gwaine, Merlin, you’ll be with me.”

“Why us?” Gwaine asked, looking miffed.

“Because you two are outliers. Neither one of you is an Archangel,”

Gwaine was about to make a retort, but Arthur plowed on firmly, “And I’ve never worked with either one of you, so it’s better to keep an eye on you both. Merlin especially, as he’s not even an Angel, and on top of that he shouldn’t be on earth in the first place.”

“And, like Lance said  _earlier,”_ Gwaine answered snidely, “The contract won’t have any hold over him as long as he’s been placed under our care. Think of it as a field trip.” Then he raised two thumbs in the air, grinning. “Congratulations, you’re the class chaperone, and we’re the rowdy schoolchildren.” He elbowed Merlin in the side, tittering gleefully. Gwaine might have been a couple thousand years old, but he was still a complete and utter child. Merlin wasn’t sure if it was worth it to take sides, or if he would do better to keep out of this one.

Anyone with eyes and ears knew that Gwaine had a certain… not animosity, per se, but definitely a level of distaste for Archangels and the way they ran things.

Suffice it to say, none of them said much more on the matter until after the rest of the team dispersed, either disappearing from view to take to the air, or running at a dead sprint, side by side, towards different areas of the city.

Merlin had to hand it to them, Leon and Lancelot could give Usain Bolt a run for his money. But before the L2 team took off, Lancelot gave a meaningful glance in Merlin’s direction and said, “Watch yourself down here,” before running to catch up with Leon.

Arthur watched after them, until they had all gone from view. He looked fond as he turned back to Merlin.

“Did you know that Lance started out as a G.A.?” he asked, conversational, in a voice loud enough to carry beyond Merlin’s ears. “Did he ever tell you how he became an Archangel after holding up the roof of a burning house to save a family of ten?”

“No,” said Merlin, “um, why are you telling me this?”

Arthur shrugged. “It’s nothing. Just thought I’d put it out there.”

It took Merlin a minute to piece together where Arthur had been coming from by mentioning it; it hadn’t been a random remark. Not at all.

From the way Gwaine turned to look at anything other than Merlin and Arthur, refusing to make any sort of eye contact, Merlin could only guess at the meaning behind Arthur’s comment. If Lancelot hadn’t always been an Archangel, then perhaps Gwaine also had a shot of becoming one as well.

If he earned it.

It was sly and Merlin didn’t know what to make of it, but it was between Arthur and Gwaine, not him. Although, Merlin wouldn’t hesitate to help a friend out.

If that was what Gwaine _wanted,_ of course.

“Okay…” Merlin’s brow pinched. “So that’s all you need to do to become an Archangel? Save the lives of a few mortals?”

Arthur snorted. “Hardly,” he said. “The burning house was just the icing on the cake. _That_ happened just after he escaped from Purgatory, where he killed the griffin.” When Merlin looked confused, Arthur explained, “The griffin was a creature created by dark forces. It escaped from Hell to wreak havoc on the souls in Purgatory. Lancelot’s… friend, Guinevere, was trapped there for nearly a thousand years. He killed the beast to save her, as well as the rest of the souls forced unjustly into Purgatory.”

Merlin caught the implications immediately.

“He was in love with a mortal.”

The mood shifted. Arthur suddenly looked uncomfortable. “We’re not technically allowed to discuss it.”

“Why not?”

It was only then that Gwaine turned back around, glancing between the two men locked in conversation, remaining silent. Merlin didn’t like the look on his face; He didn’t say anything, but he’d evidently been listening in on the whole thing. Not that he’d had much else to do when the entire street was empty and quiet.

Gwaine had that look that people often got when they really, _really_ wanted to say something, but knew it was in his and everyone’s best interest to keep his gob shut. He looked like he was putting forth a marvelous effort, just to stop himself from blurting out what was on his mind.

“Mortals and Archangels…” Arthur pressed his lips together tightly. The words, sounding deprived to Merlin’s ears, were troubling when uttered in that way. “Never mind.”

Arthur’s eyes snapped left, all of a sudden.

A cool wind blew through the streets, ruffling their hair and making the collars of their jackets flutter. It wasn’t the kind of cool that refreshed you when the day had been warm. It was the kind of cool that preceded a thunderstorm and heavy rain.

Arthur shut his eyes for a moment, concentrating, and when he opened them again he said, “Stay here with Gwaine, I just need to check something,” before turning on his heel and melting into the shadows instantly, with Merlin watching after him in confusion.

It was almost too graceful, Merlin thought, the way Arthur just melted into the shadows like ink bleeding into paper. How could one man be that graceful?

“Like we have a choice,” Gwaine grumbled, although he didn’t complain about at _least_ having Merlin for company. “I’m going to do a quick sweep of the area, you feel free to go… I dunno, find a bench or something. Might be a minute.”

“Do a sweep?”

No answer. Gwaine had shut his eyes, and his body was as still as stone. With a sigh, Merlin realized he was never going to get a straight response from anyone who had a set of wings and an ego to match, before he shrugged, and circled around to face the darkened street lamp standing across the street. A bench sat just next to it.

That was another thing he learned quickly, hanging around celestials: Just go with it. It was more a survival tactic than anything. If he started to question too much, the curiosity would drive him up the wall.

Not needing to look both ways as there was no traffic to speak of at this hour, Merlin crossed the narrow, back street and stepped up onto the curb, shuffling over to the metal bench. He sat down heavily.

In his periphery, he caught another figure looking at him.

It wasn’t Gwaine.

The street lamp flickered briefly, then flickered again, before switching on completely without any further disturbance. The glow it emanated was weak at best, but it was still the only electricity to be seen within forty-two square miles, maybe more.

 

The woman standing beneath the streetlamp cast no shadow. Merlin only noticed it once he looked down at the pavement, and it was a good thing he did, otherwise he would have mistaken the woman – more a girl, really, old enough to still be in uni, as she couldn’t have been less than four or five years younger than Merlin – for a living mortal.

Mostly, Merlin couldn't tell those wandering from those who were simply homeless, but after Lancelot pointed out a wandering soul just before the shadowy man disappeared into an alleyway, Merlin realized that nothing was what it seemed. These souls were invisible to the eyes of the living, just like Merlin was.

This woman was definitely one of the wanderers. A lost soul. Merlin decided it couldn't hurt to approach her - she didn't look lost, truthfully, but she did look anxious.

Merlin frowned; he hadn’t _heard_ anyone approach in this direction in the past few minutes. “Um… hello?” he tried.

The woman looked so startled that she nearly stumbled off the curb. Merlin stood up with the intent of grabbing her arm to steer her away before she fell, but the woman caught herself before he could be of any help. She eyed his outstretched hand with suspicion, but didn’t move any farther away.

"You can see me?" she asked.

Merlin nodded, and carefully retracted his hand.

The woman gasped when he actually responded, and a hand flew to her mouth in shock. Merlin took in her appearance: Her hair was a mousy brown, her face thin like the rest of her, and she wore a torn, knee-length dress that looked too big on her skinny frame. At the waist was a thick, leather belt, cinching the material more tightly to show off just how thin her waist _really_ was. Over the ratty dress she wore a warmer-looking cardigan. Merlin couldn't quite pinpoint the era she may have come from, but if he had to guess, he'd have to say somewhere between the '40s and the '60s.

The woman's eyes, already rather large, had flown so wide at Merlin's nod that Merlin was taken aback.

"Really?" she breathed.

"Yes."

"So... so you're dead, then," the woman presumed, looking sad again. "Living people can't see me." Her shoulders sagged.

Merlin's heart went out to her, looking back on his first trip, accidental though it may have been, to earth. It was unsettling to realize he’d been invisible, in a literal sense. "True," he answered. "But didn’t— didn’t they tell you that, before you made the choice to stay down here?"

The young woman nodded once, biting her lip. She still looked uneasy.

"There aren't many of us down here. But I had to see my Jeremy..." she looked on the verge of tears, and Merlin reached out cautiously to put a hand on her shoulder in a show of comfort.

The woman, flighty as a startled doe, shied away.

"It was the polio that took him,” she sobbed, shaking her head back and forth. “I watched over him through all that suffering," she broke off to look away, sniffling. Merlin stood there awkwardly, not really sure what he should be saying (or if he should even say anything).

When it seemed like she'd gotten her wits about her once more, she looked back at Merlin with apprehension. "Something bad is happening, isn’t there?" she whispered.

Merlin was stunned. How did she know, how could she possibly have known that?

"There've been more of them around, lately." She shifted from foot to foot, looking around. "Demons, I think."

So she knew more than he’d thought.

"S-Sometimes their eyes are black…." She shivered, wrapping herself more tightly in the yellow cardigan. There hadn’t been so much as a breeze.

Merlin noticed the shiver. "Are you cold?" he asked, concerned. But the woman shook her head.

"I never get cold. It's just... demons." She hugged herself and pressed her chin to her sternum. It could only be a natural reaction, after all these years, that the woman would have no choice but to seek comfort in herself when there was no one around to see her, let alone offer comfort through touch, something as simple as a brush on her elbow or as intimate as a warm embrace.

Merlin thought it only right not to pry any deeper. The woman's eyes were downcast; she was on edge - had been for some time, probably. Merlin had never thought that the dead could ever have _any_ thing left to fear when Hell wasn't an option.

But apparently, the wandering deceased could get scared, too. Even if they themselves were practically ghosts.

"My name's Freya, by the way," the woman murmured, soft and maybe even shy, as she stuck out a slender hand for Merlin to shake. Merlin reached out and shook hands with her, smiling.

"Nice to meet you, Freya. I'm Merlin." His hand remained in Freya’s hand. He didn’t doubt that Freya was reveling in the comforting touch of another physical, _solid_ presence.

“Merlin,” came Gwaine’s voice, and when Merlin turned around Gwaine was looking at the two of them from across the street, his expression impassive.

He must have found something. “Arthur will be coming back soon, tell the lovely lady,” he nodded to Freya, who blushed, “that you really need to be leaving now.”

Merlin turned back to Freya with a small smile. Freya smiled back, and Merlin was quick to make the assumption that she was probably the loveliest person one would ever be lucky enough to meet, if only he’d had more time to get to know her.

But it wasn’t like he could just stick around. “Well… you heard him,” he said, “I’d better be going then.”

“You know...” Freya murmured, looking timidly up into Merlin’s eyes. Her own were very brown and very bright. “You look a bit like my Jeremy. I hope, if you ever come across him up in the clouds you’ll tell him hello from me?”

“It’s a promise,” Merlin said. Then they shook hands, and Merlin waved goodbye. Freya looked a bit forlorn—it wasn’t every day someone could see her, after all. With a twinge in his heart, Merlin turned back to cross the street, and followed Gwaine down the block.

 

**-^i^-**

 

Everyone met back up in the car park of a small Tesco’s express, where each pair relayed the news that nothing explicitly out of the ordinary had been spotted, although the regular dark activity had heightened in the center of the city within the last hour. It wasn’t uncommon for the levels to fluctuate, but as long as those levels didn’t cross a certain threshold, the celestial powers were supposed to leave them be. It was all part of the "balance."

From there, all struck up a brisk walk down shaded streets and back roads. Angels were only visible to mortals if they wanted to be, but it didn’t stop the things that lurked in the dark from tracking powerful celestial energy if it was nearby.

Every five minutes, Arthur would tell them all to pick up the pace, and he looked back over his shoulders to make sure everyone was still there at _least_ once every two minutes. Merlin had to hand it to him, Arthur really cared a lot for his little squadron.

Now, they were at a standstill, waiting. Merlin wasn’t sure what for, but they weren’t in any immediate danger if the lax atmosphere of the crew said anything.

Percival was checking the ammo in his enormous (nay, _badass)_  revolver; Lucan was nonchalantly picking a bit of lint from his sleeve, but was also probably scanning the area quietly for unfriendlies like the sneaky bastard he was; Lancelot stood a few feet from Arthur with a straight spine, alert and ready to follow orders; Geraint and Galahad were quietly bickering over who had more bullets hidden in the various (disturbing) nooks and crannies of their clothing; Gwaine was humming “ _It’s a Small World,_ ” just loud enough to be annoying, and Leon was just doing his best to ignore it like the mature adult Angel he was.

“Not to be rude,” said Lucan, sounding very rude indeed, “but would you mind, I dunno, shutting up?”

Gwaine returned Lucan’s request with a choice pair of fingers raised high for all to see. “Whatever makes you happy, sweetheart,” he said, and after that began to hum the tune to “ _God Save the Queen._ ” At least it wasn’t a song that made everyone want to tear out their eardrums with pliers.

Until he hummed it for the third time in a row, at which point Lucan delivered a slap to the back of Gwaine’s head. Just when it looked like the two were about to fight to the death, the temperature suddenly dropped ten degrees.

Merlin, no longer amongst the living and therefore not as reliant on homeostasis anymore, didn’t shiver like a living person would. But he registered the change all the same.

“Shh… get back.” Arthur motioned for everyone to move away from the street, out of sight around the corner where a shady little back road, lit only by a single, dying street lamp, lay empty and silent. Merlin wisely clamped his mouth shut. Even Gwaine and Lucan looked like they’d calmed down.

“Something’s not right.”

“No shit,” Geraint hissed from behind. Everyone _shush_ ed him.

The collective host of celestials (excluding Merlin) were formidable Archangels (excluding Gwaine), and all were expertly cloaked under the shadows that the awnings of the dark little shops lining the street offered. But apparently, none of them were above the juvenile _shush_ ing one normally heard from teenage prats in the cinema.

After further instruction from Arthur, they all backed up towards the closest alleyway and slipped past the chain-link fence, hanging open pathetically on one hinge.

 

In the end, they all found themselves huddling next to a dumpster. A very overfilled dumpster.

The smell was far from pleasant, but they would have to make do. Merlin appeared to be the only one who felt the urge to cover his nose. Arthur looked at him with a question on his face, but Merlin shook his head, scrunching his nose when the odour from something rancid in the crusty pile of rubbish behind them suddenly worsened. The lack of such a visceral reaction from the rest of the squadron suggested they hadn’t been affected.

For once, Merlin agreed with Gwaine’s bitter mantra: _Fucking Archangels._

They were all waiting for something.

But it seemed like whatever it was had passed, for not ten minutes later the temperature rose again. Arthur silently signaled for everyone to follow as he led the way back out of the alley. What the hell had all that been about?

Merlin, not watching where he was headed, brushed past the fence and didn’t notice when a corner of his jacket got caught on a loose piece of chain link. It caught him mid-stride, and he tumbled to the pavement before he knew what was happening, nearly rolling into the road itself.

All Merlin knew next was, he was on his back. He quickly pushed himself into a sitting position, dazed.

It was right at that moment that Arthur decided to turn around.

A moment more, and he was at Merlin's side, guiding him up with a steadying hand.

Merlin tried to ignore the way his veins felt like they were catching fire beneath the careful touch on the small of his back.

When he looked up, Arthur was smirking. He shook his head, his hair catching the light of the flickering streetlamp leaning crooked nearby. It was clear on his face that he was amused by Merlin's _ridiculously_ mortal clumsiness. Another mortal would have laughed, even.

"You really are a disaster, aren't you?" Arthur wondered aloud, quiet enough that only Merlin could hear. Merlin brushed off the hand offered and righted himself, pushing off the ground until his feet were both planted firmly on the pavement.

"C'mon, onward we go." With that, Arthur's expression returned to its normal, blasé mask. Merlin watched while the man went to reclaim his place at the front of the group, leaving Merlin with something akin to emptiness hanging in the air, right over the spot where Arthur  had used one hand to help guide him up. In the next instant, Gwaine was next to him, one eyebrow raised. Merlin ignored it and continued to walk, trying to play it all off as though nothing had happened.

It was bad enough being the only mortal amidst a group of celestials- being a _clumsy_ mortal was even worse.

Merlin listened raptly as Arthur reported what he’d found, fascinated with the concept of demons. Of course, if Angels were real, why couldn’t they be, too?

“The darkest site is at the edge of a public park, about a mile from here,” Arthur relayed. Merlin wondered, if they could all fly, why didn’t they just whisk away to the site already? They could be there in seconds—Oh. Right. They probably wouldn’t want to leave Merlin behind. Merlin was really starting to feel bad, knowing he was the reason for holding back the team.

“There’s something else you all should know,” Arthur added darkly, “There’s one powerful demon in that area, and the thing isn’t alone.”

There were a few nods, accompanied by some muttering amongst the Archangels. Gwaine rolled his eyes.

“And someone we know appears to have joined them. Kanen is with the demon.”

“What?” Elyan gasped.

“I thought he was on our side?” said Geraint.

Arthur’s mouth was thin. But he didn’t look back much as they continued to walk briskly past the rows of dark houses and side streets.

Thankfully, at least for Merlin, each time an Angel passed under a street lamp the thing flickered on for a minute or so, providing some light to see by. Otherwise, they would have been in total darkness, excluding the natural haze that each member of the team gave off.

 “I didn’t know Kanen was an _Angel_ killer,” Galahad muttered, “I thought he was a demon exterminator?”

“An exorcist, yes,” Percival supplied. When most of the others threw him funny looks, he scratched the back of his head sheepishly and said, “We… I used to be friends with him. Worked with him, sometimes. Before Arthur recruited me.”

Arthur nodded, but everyone else looked momentarily stunned.

“And he was the best. So good, in fact, I heard the demons were afraid to say his name. He was friends with the Angels for _years_ , I’m sure he’s learned in a plethora of methods designed to take down heavenlies as well as demons. He’s not your run-of-the-mill exorcist.”

“All right gents,” Gwaine muttered darkly, “I hope you all brought lube, because we are about to get _fucked._ ”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Gwaine,” said Leon, looking cranky. A few of his curls, which were normally in a perfect state of just-rolled-out-of-bed, hung in front of his eyes, and he blew them out of the way. He pulled his navy windbreaker more tightly around himself **;** The deep crimson t-shirt underneath was hardly visible with most of the jacket zipped up. “Always nice to have my day brightened by your endless optimism.”

“Happy to help,” Gwaine said.

"Either Kanen's been possessed," Arthur said, "or he's switched sides for the hell of it. Whichever it is, he's very, very dangerous. Be on your guard."

“So… tell me again why the mortal had to come with us?” Geraint asked from next to Galahad, who was smartly keeping his mouth shut.

“Relax," said Gwaine, "No one will be able to see him anyway.”

“Uh, the fucking _exorcist gone M.I.A_ with insider's knowledge on Angels will be able to see him. Who d’you think that son of a whore’s gonna target first if he finds us before we find him?” Percival winced at such foul language, but Geraint wasn’t stopping for anyone. “The recently deceased, defenseless mortal who smells of fresh soul,” he gestured to Merlin, “or a couple of heavy-rank Angels with permission to kill on sight?”

“He’ll be fine, as long as he stays close to us,” Arthur said, fingering his own pistol hidden just beneath his windbreaker. Merlin caught the motion, even from behind Lancelot. He couldn’t help the fuzzy feeling that no matter what happened, Arthur wouldn’t be taking shit from anyone, especially not when Merlin’s afterlife was on the line. It was almost flattering.

Then Merlin remembered with a sinking feeling that protecting mortals was Arthur’s _job,_ and the fuzziness left him.

“Why?” Gwaine interjected. “You gonna protect him like the great feathery beau you are?” He snickered, cheeky as always, and looked from Arthur to Merlin, who had since flushed the color of a ripe berry. “You’re adorable.” Arthur gave the cherub a positively withering look; the warning in in eyes was so concentrated that Gwaine actually took one hop back, hands up in surrender. “Hey, just saying. The way you two make eyes at each other when the other is looking the other way? Adorable.”

“Gwaine, just let it g-” Lancelot tried to interrupt. Gwaine was having none of that.

“Hate to break it to you princess, but the cherubim _know all_ when it comes to cute little schoolmate crushes. Get your wings out of your arse and your head out of the clouds.”

When he stopped, everyone had gone silent, all at a standstill in the middle of an empty four-way intersection. Even Lucan, who was normally ready with a sarcastic rebuttal to Gwaine and his rantings, was at a loss for words.

With an eye roll to rival that of a petulant teenager, Arthur turned on his heel, and began to strut coldly in the direction they were meant to be headed anyway. So, what, that was it, then?

“Don’t pay him no mind,” Geraint muttered in Merlin’s ear before stepping into line with the rest of them. “Cherubs like to play matchmaker all the time,” the look that he gave Gwaine was pitying, “I wouldn’t take it personally. Poor bloke’s just having a little fun is all.”

“Cheers, mate.” Gwaine just stared for a second, looking indifferent on the very surface, but the way he said ‘cheers’ came out sounding more like ‘fuck you, and your offspring also.’ He was furious at having been dismissed like that, as if he was only ever good for serving as the butt of a running joke. Merlin could understand his aversion to Archangels. 

Leon had since begun to look abashed, possibly for Arthur’s sake, and was beginning to realize just how much Gwaine had actually managed to get under Arthur’s skin. If the demons didn’t hack them to bits, Arthur definitely would.

It was Leon who finally cleared his throat, breaking the discomfort of all the dead air. “Let’s get going,” he mumbled, and followed after Arthur.

The rest of the Archangels fell into step behind Leon, who was obviously accepted by all as second-in-command. Gwaine lagged behind, and Merlin bit his lip, not entirely sure what to say.

They all needed to stay together and Gwaine couldn’t be left behind just because no one was taking him seriously. “C’mon,” Merlin said after a beat, “We can’t stay here.”

Gwaine nodded stiffly and allowed Merlin to lead the way, following the others down the alleyway and through the crooked streets.

 

The sky was dark and quickly becoming overcast; already, a drizzle of rain spackled their jackets with moisture. The clear, starry black and blue sky was rapidly darkening, replaced with austere grey. Merlin supposed it was lucky he was wearing a raincoat; Gwaine’s own, battered, brown jacket snapped in the wind, unzipped to reveal a plain, brown v-neck and a length of twine tied around his neck. A charm hung on the end of it, but Merlin couldn’t tell what it was. At least Gwaine had the sense to dress in something that made him blend in with mortals, instead of the half-arsed attempts the others made with their brand-spanking-new windbreakers and clean, pressed t-shirts. Mortals didn't  _iron_ their _t-shirts._

Merlin was curious about the charm hanging from the bit of twine, but wasn’t sure this was the time to ask. Gwaine’s tantrum had thrown him for a loop for sure, and, if he were being totally honest with himself, he couldn’t blame Arthur for reacting the way he had. God knew Merlin hadn't reacted the way he wished he had, either.

Merlin liked Arthur, sure, but Arthur was an Angel. He worked for the literal Big Man, always busy with a job, looking after the countless deceased, all that jazz. And he was nothing more than a friend who tolerated Merlin and his reminisces while they took their regular walks in Heaven’s gardens, talked about whatever Merlin was in the mood to talk about over coffee or tea or whatever Merlin had conjured up for the day, allowed Merlin to tell him off for being a pillock and actually _listened_ to his complaints, promising to make certain that Merlin wouldn't have to be unhappy up in Heaven…

Well, he was a friend. Sometimes. Other times, though, he was impossible to fathom.

 

**-^i^-**

 

They crossed the street, void of a single car driving by, and filed one by one onto the pavement in front of one of the larger houses on the block. The streets were dark. The traffic lights were out. Granted, the hour must have been too late for any traffic anyway.

The tightly packed group circled around the big house, edging as close to the fence as they could, avoiding the gardening hose that had been left lying around in a tangle by whoever owned the place, before they hopped over the low gate leading into the backyard.

For a bunch of Angels, they seemed to be pretty comfortable with trespassing onto private property.

 

Circling round back, the yard opened up into a small field, probably used by schoolchildren for no-rules rugby matches. Situated a ways down was a small children’s playground, and one in sore need of a new jungle gym and some monkey bars without half the rungs missing.

“What d’you reckon?” Percival muttered over to where Lancelot stood. Lancelot made no comment, too focused on Geraint and Gwaine, who stood eye to eye like they were sizing each other up. Probably about to go another round of bickering.

“I reckon it’s about time you all got here,” someone called from the cluster of trees at the edge of the park.

 

All turned, on high alert, to face the trees.

Someone laughed.

The laugh didn’t belong to anyone in the group. “I don’t like this…” Gwaine whispered, putting a foot in front of Merlin to keep him back. The wind picked up; just like it had earlier in the alleyway, the temperature dropped ten degrees. Then another five. Much too cold for a summer night. Merlin swore he could see frost forming on the grass all around them- when he shuffled his feet, it _crrrunch_ ed. Yep. Frosted over.

A young-looking man with shaggy, brown hair, a jacket made entirely of glossy leather, and ripped jeans, stepped out from behind one of the trees. The way he sauntered into view was almost laughably dramatic.

When the squad caught sight of the demons encroaching on their path from the second cluster of trees cutting off the other end of the park, silence fell over them all. They seemed to know exactly what they were dealing with. 

“Well,” Elyan muttered, schooling his expression into something calmer, “guess I should’ve packed my lube.” True to character, his expression never broke.

Merlin’s heart caught in his throat. He looked on, frozen where he stood just safe enough for now within the formation of Angels.

 

It was Will Evans who stood in front of them, a wicked smile contorting his features.

 

“ _Will…?”_   Merlin whispered. But no one heard him.

“Hello darlings,” Will cooed, looking for all the world like he was supreme ruler of the universe as he glanced casually from one Angel to the next, until his eyes finally landed on Merlin, still rooted to his spot, situated diagonally from the man’s right shoulder. Something else flitted across the young man’s playful expression. Recognition, maybe. His smile stretched wider.

Merlin shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold.

“Hello, don’t I know you?” Will asked, quirking his head in Merlin’s direction. They stood a good eight meters apart, but it felt to Merlin like they were face to face, alone. It was Will.

They’d found Will.

The front line of Archangels never took their eyes off the man, but the three standing in the back line next to Merlin on either side, which were Lance, Elyan, and Percival, all side-eyed Merlin peculiarly. 

“Will… what are you-?”

“-Doing here?” Will spread his arms, looking like he was getting ready to introduce someone else. Of course, there was no one behind him. “I think I could ask you the same, mate.” With that, he blinked once, and in that second his eyes turned black.

Not just his pupils, but the irises, the sclera, all the spaces between. Pure, soulless black. Alarmingly empty.

Merlin recoiled, taking another step back. Arthur’s head twisted to look over his shoulder, an expression of confusion written there.

Merlin felt like he’d looked right into the eyes of hell, staring horrified into the black orbs that should never belong to a human, ever.

“You know him?” Arthur muttered, training his eyes back on Will.

“Did you miss me, Merls?” Will asked, friendly, all while he ignored Arthur and the rest of the Angels, but Merlin was quickly realizing that this, _this_ was not Will. This was not _his_ Will.

It was impossible, Merlin thought. It felt like someone was choking him.

It was Will, the man he’d gone to uni with, the boy he’d grown up with, the kid who put itching powder in Jemma Wilson’s hair when they were twelve and blamed Merlin for it; Will, who tormented Merlin to no end and, somehow, always brought out the best in him.

 

Will disappeared the week after graduation.

The first day of Will’s disappearance, Merlin equated it to him getting smashed somewhere in Bristol with some uni grad mates and flying the bird to the world of education, while simultaneously shagging as many birds as he could trick into his bed – anyone who would put up with his nonstop yammering, that was.

The second day of Will’s disappearance, Will’s overprotective mum called the police.

That was one week before the drunk driver; No one but Hunith went to Mrs. Evans’s funeral, not even her sorry excuse of an ex-husband.

Merlin had been terrified. And not only when Will first disappeared, but the weeks and months that followed, the fear of never seeing his best friend didn’t stop, not ever. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to say goodbye to Will before he went off. Before Merlin flatlined in some random hospital in Bristol.

 

This, apparently, was the reason behind Will’s disappearance. _This_ was what had brought him out from Haringey all the way to Bristol.

Demons.

 

“What’ve you done with Will?” Merlin asked, leveling his voice so that it came out not frightened, not even a little wavering, but dangerous. It was almost frightening, how he could sound when he was beyond angry. Merlin was devastated, and he was livid. His best friend hadn’t run away after all **;** he’d been taken, and by a black-eyed bastard, no less.

The man who looked like Will, but wasn’t, didn’t look so much as fazed by the question.

“What, you mean the skin suit I’m wearing right now?” the demon asked, laughing with Will's mouth and Will's eyes, but not with Will's soul or his heart. He had _no right_. “He’s probably tap-dancing around in here somewhere. No worries.”

From behind him, another figure stepped out from the trees. Taller and broader, wearing a trench coat of a ruddy brown material, fingerless leather gloves, and a shit-eating grin on his face. This must be Kanen.

“Evening, gents,” the man said. His voice carried a gruff timbre, but his tone was much too pleasant for the situation.

Something clicked. Merlin knew enough about guns to recognize the sound of someone flicking off the safety, and braced himself for the bang that was sure to follow.

In front of him, Arthur had raised his pistol, shining pure gold in the haze cast around him.

Kanen had a gun of his own raised, sleek and black, with a long barrel. The safety had been switched off already.

It was Will who had flicked the switch, holding a weapon in his left hand. The silver pistol shone in the dark without the need for any street lamps or stars.

Black eyes blinked, and returned to the relatively human illusion of Will’s human, hazel eyes, but the disgusting wickedness burning bright from within was enough to betray that he was no mortal. This was not a benevolent creature.

Merlin heard and saw every single Angel whip out their own firearms, aiming all at once but in various directions, trained on things in the trees that Merlin could not see himself, and the team looked perfectly lethal in their strict, steady formation. But they were still surrounded.

Merlin noticed that Leon was no longer amongst the team, and got a very bad feeling.

At first, it was only silence that hung in the air, and Merlin’s eyes followed the direction in which the barrel of Will’s gun was aimed: Not at Merlin, but Arthur.

_No._

 

Before Merlin had any time to react, he saw Will’s arm suddenly swing around in the opposite direction.

The shot missed, of course, but why….?

Ah, so _that’s_ where he’d gone off to. It looked as though Leon had managed to circle around the park, just in time to get behind Kanen – the bullet meant for Arthur missed its intended target by a mile.

Will turned around with a snarl, but Leon had already vanished from sight again.

“Celestial interference!” Kanen roared, “You know the rules!”

“The balance has already been tampered with,” Leon snapped, startling Merlin as he was found suddenly standing at attention by Arthur’s side, quirking his head. “We’re just fixing what was broken.”

“Oh, we’ve hardly begun, believe me,” sneered Will. Flanking his left about two meters away, Kanen aimed his own firearm towards Arthur, and his finger was already on the trigger.

“No!” Merlin growled, running forward. Someone grabbed him and yanked him back. But Will rounded on Merlin’s voice just the same, leering. Kanen's eyes flickered to the movement for the barest hint of a second.

It was enough.

While Will – or whatever was possessing Will – was distracted, and consequently distracting Kanen, Lucan pulled the same stunt Leon had not much earlier, materializing from behind. Before the bullet could be fired from the chamber, Kanen’s arm was smacked sideways.

Merlin stared, horrified.

His throat seized up at the image of Will, with eyes completely clouded over in inky black, staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, just before—

 

_BANG!_

 

Will staggered sideways, letting out a cry of pain as he lost his footing. He let out an undignified gasp, clutching his side as his eyes blinked rapidly, black to green, black again, then brown, back and forth. Meanwhile, Lucan wrestled the gun from Kanen’s grip, tackling the man to the ground in the process. The fight quickly turned vicious.

Merlin foggily heard Gwaine snap at him to get out of the way as the cherub flung out an arm in front of Merlin, the other aiming towards the trees where Kanen had stumbled back. An old-fashioned revolver, complete with blessed golden bullets, was positioned and ready in his hand. The cylinder had a round in each chamber, all bigger than the average bullet, and much deadlier.

The other Angels moved together, a well-oiled machine, firing in all directions towards the trees. The shots could probably be heard for miles around.

They looked like the kind of group that one did _not_ want to fuck around with.

Kanen managed to scrape and claw his way out of Lucan's grip, and the second he had, he was already running like hell. It didn’t seem to matter that he’d missed his shot – if he stayed, he was dead.

He was probably dead, anyway.

“Someone go after him!” Leon barked. Immediately, Geraint and Lucan stashed their guns – and in Lucan’s case, an additional silver knife – and sprinted down the path in pursuit of the rogue exorcist. There was a snap of wings being unfurled, and the next second, the two had vanished, no doubt to track their target from the sky.

Arthur was too busy watching Merlin as he bolted past the squadron of Angels.

 

Time felt like it'd gone haywire all around them, slowing down, speeding up, even though it hadn’t changed at all in the space of ten seconds. But ten seconds had been enough for shit to hit the ceiling fan. Five seconds had been enough for the entire mission to go _wrong_.

Merlin reached Will just as his body crumpled, losing footing on solid ground as the impact of the shot threw him back.

Before the man had even made contact with the earth, Merlin caught him around the waist and lowered him the rest of the way to the grass, slowly, and with exceeding care so as not to jostle him. Will’s expression looked stunned; Merlin’s was twisted in agony.

“Shit…” Gwaine muttered, holstering his revolver. The others slowly lowered their guns, too, once they realized that the immediate threat was gone.

Will lay very still on the ground, blood already puddling into the grass underneath, soaking his shirt and jeans and seeping into Merlin’s as well. The leather jacket clung tightly to Will’s frame, an article of clothing that he wasn’t likely to have chosen himself, even if he did have his own flare for dramatics. The son of a bitch possessing him must have been responsible for making Will look as far from _Merlin’s_ Will as possible.

His chest moved up and down shallowly, his breathing erratic.

A death rattle escaped the dying man’s lips. Will’s eyes were no longer clouded with black, but returned to their original, hazel-green; the demon had been killed, but Will was no less safe for it.

“Who’s… who’s there?” Will’s lips moved like they were half a second out of sync from his voice. He blinked rapidly, quickly losing focus.

He couldn’t see Merlin. Merlin was invisible to his best friend, even now. “Will… Will, it’s me,” Merlin gasped anyway, swiftly unzipping the leather jacket all the way to get a look at the shirt underneath. The entire left half was already soaked through.

“Merlin?”

“Yeah, Will, it’s me. I’m here.”

“Can’t be… it’s really you?” Will’s eyes flicked back and forth, landing everywhere but on Merlin’s face.

Merlin nodded, even though he knew Will wouldn’t see it. “Yeah,” he whispered, soothing, managing to gain some control over his voice for the sake of having at least this much of a conversation with his friend, all while Will was virtually made to talk to air.

"The fuck you doin' here, Merls?" he croaked, before giving a cough. A spray of blood speckled Merlin's sleeve where his arm pressed against Will's side. "You should've… why’n’t you run? Those bastards aren't going to let you 'lone just 'cause… just ‘c-cause Valiant’s dead. Get-" he coughed again. “Get out of here. I’m dead anyway.”

Merlin leaned over and cradled Will's head in his hand, keeping it upright. "Shh.." he murmured, “No, you’re not dead, you’re not…”

"God’s sakes, just get yourself out of here," Will urged, wheezing. Another cough, and it was wet and thick this time. His gasps for air sounded crackly, anyone could see that his body was in no condition to be moved. Merlin had no idea what had happened to him whilst the demon was inside his friend, but it had not been gentle. And that angered Merlin even more.

“Just hold on a little longer,” Merlin urged, and swallowed down something sour that threatened to make its way into the back of his throat. “We’ll get you help.”

His head whipped around, tears already stinging in his eyes, and he shouted at the team of Angels standing silently in formation, stoic and tense. “Help him!” he begged. “Please!”

Not a single Angel moved from his place.

Their eyes were aimed at the ground. Arthur stood at the front, and he looked the most ashamed of all. Merlin wasn’t sure if he was imagining things, but when Arthur shook his head from side to side, just a fraction, he mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

Merlin looked back at Will, desperate.

“There’s no helping me, Merlin,” Will managed to choke out, even though Merlin could see how much it was hurting him to do so. He shook his head. There were flecks of blood staining his lips. “I’m a dead man.”

“No.”

“I told you to get… yourse-self out of here, Merls. _Go.”_ A hand weakly pushed at the general area of Merlin’s chest, just below his right shoulder.

Merlin choked back a sob of grief. He couldn’t lose Will now, not when he’d only just found him again. Will probably hadn’t even known Merlin was dead, too busy being controlled by that _thing._

Just then the hand paused at Merlin’s shoulder, and a moment later it reached up to brush a tear from his cheek.

Stunned, Merlin’s eyes flicked up to meet Will’s, where he saw an intensity that only a dying man could possess. “Merlin…” Will breathed. His eyes had suddenly gone very wide. “I see you.”

Merlin’s heart rejoiced. His best friend could see him, _finally_ , after losing him for over four months— and then ripped savagely in two at what this probably meant. What it meant for Will.

“I see…” Will never finished his sentence. His eyelids fluttered once, twice, before shutting for the last time.

Merlin screamed Will’s name so many times he lost count.

 

** **

 

He didn’t know how long he knelt there, shaking, with his face buried in the front of Will’s ruined t-shirt and one hand curled protectively around the back of his skull, cradling it there. His other hand still pressed at the oozing, impossibly deep wound, slicking his hands with so much blood that not even a centimeter of skin was visible through the redness. Merlin didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything.

Someone put a hand on his back, just between his shoulder blades. The touch was horribly gentle. He shrugged violently in an effort to make them go away, whoever they were.

“We need to move, Merlin,” the person said.

Arthur.

Figures. If it had been anyone else, Merlin probably would have turned around and ripped their head off for interrupting his last moments with his best friend. But he couldn’t bring himself to lash out at Arthur. He just couldn’t.

Instead, he buried his face into the crook of Will’s shoulder, clinging to Will’s body even though there was no more life left to feel. “Leave me alone,” he croaked.

He heard footsteps receding over the grass. Voices muttering. Heard someone say regretfully that they really needed to do another search of the city. Will- or the demon who had been wearing him like a fucking _costume_ \- was dangerous, but he was also dead, and if the city’s power hadn’t come back on by now, then neither the demon nor Kanen could have had anything to do with it. They’d only been a distraction.

 

“It’s time to go,” someone said gently from above. Lancelot, this time.

"W-wait," choked Merlin, "we can't just leave him here."

"Will isn't there, Merlin," Gwaine soothed, crushing the grass beneath his trainers as he made his way over to join them. Lancelot leaned over and put a hand on Merlin's shoulder. Merlin shrugged it off.

Lancelot sighed. "It's just a body now, Merlin."  
  
Merlin shook his head furiously, another sob wracking his slim, suddenly fragile frame. "No, I won't leave him here."  
  
"We don’t have a choice," Lancelot said, gentle. Merlin was too far gone with grief to register that someone was lifting him from under his arms, until he realized his feet were on the ground and he was vertical, instead of kneeling next to Will's broken body.

Arthur walked past the three of them and over to Will, completely quiet as he knelt down by his side, bringing a hand to cover Will's eyes. Something flashed bright gold under his palm, and the next second, Arthur took his hand away.  
  
"He's been given a proper blessing," he murmured, looking to Merlin, who stood white as a sheet between Lancelot and Gwaine. The rest remained where they were, close to where they’d all entered the park.

At first, they all just stood there, heads bowed in respect. The next moment, Will's body started to sink.

Merlin watched in morbid fascination as the body disappeared inch by inch into the ground, embraced by the earth. Merlin forgot to breathe, too caught up in the sight of his friend disappearing from him forever.

“Will he… will he go up…?” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the question. No one answered.

Which was all the answer he needed. No, Will would not be there when Merlin got back to Heaven. Merlin was not going to see Will again. His best friend, practically his _brother._

But Will would, at the very least, be buried; it wasn't the most desirable venue for a burial, but it was better than nothing. Merlin would not leave Will's body out to rot like one would do with the goddamn rubbish bin. Will was worth so much to him. Much more than he could put into words.

He wanted to shout and scream and shake his fist at the God who had allowed his own life to be taken so soon, and then permitted Will's to be taken, too.  
  
But stronger than his grief was his anger, and Merlin physically shook with it. He knew how ashen he must have looked, how completely eviscerated he felt. He’d just lost his best friend.

 

**-^i^-**

 

No one argued when Merlin asked to be left alone.

 

Arthur agreed that they all needed to do a secondary sweep of the city, anyway, but he personally offered to remain behind, in case Merlin decided he wanted to join them again.

To say that Merlin was shaken would be the biggest understatement of the millennium.

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, couldn't do much to even remain on his feet, he could only follow orders and wait as Arthur left him in the relative safety of the enclosed space the dead end of an alley offered while Arthur went to scout out the area.

Once Merlin was alone, he sat against the farthest wall and buried his face in his knees, because he couldn't do anything. He  _should_ have done something, anything, to stop this from happening. He blamed himself. He didn't know why he blamed himself but the poisonous idea had already wriggled into his brain, the toxic notion that he was the cause of everything, the suffering and the misery and death. He was nowhere close to his mother, they were more than an hour away from London, and now half the world was dealing with all this nonsense about darkness and all of it was happening too close to his time of arrival into Heaven.

 

He didn’t think much of it when a woman stepped into the alleyway, looking side to side like she was expecting to be followed, before she entered into the shadows that the surrounding walls offered.

Merlin had long since sat down, his back against the farthest wall where the road met a dead end.

He was too deep in misery to care about one more mortal. The woman would probably wait out the rain in here, not spare him so much as a glance, and then be on her merry way.

He thought that that was what would happen. Until the woman turned around and locked her eyes with his. That was definitely not coincidental, for her eyes to land exactly where Merlin’s were looking. And then _follow_ his gaze when he turned his head to the side. No, she could see him, plain as day.

It was _then_ that Merlin panicked.

But the woman reached out a hand, only just visible beneath the draping sleeves of her black coat. Actually, no, she wasn’t wearing a coat. It was more like a cloak. Gossamer robes woven of grey and black.

“Do not be afraid,” the woman said.

 

Because saying something like that _always_ inspired people sitting alone in alleyways to relax.

 

The woman might have been beautiful, once; now, though, her silver hair, poking out beneath a great black cowl, was stringy, there were crinkles around her mouth that certainly hadn’t been brought about from smiling, and the woman had sagging jowls. Her skin looked as though it had been taken off, put through a taffy pull on a gentle setting, and then placed back over her bones. That was all she was, really: skin and bones.

The woman took a step closer, hand still outstretched. Merlin scrambled up, using the wall for purchase, and got to his feet. The temperature of the air had dipped again, and this time, the chill really did make Merlin shake in his rain jacket.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, wary. His face was still wet with tears. His eyes felt a bit puffy. The woman didn’t appear to be another demon, but anything was possible these days.

“It’s not what I want, but what the balance wants,” the woman answered. Seeing that Merlin didn’t need help getting to his feet, her hand retracted back under the billowing sleeve of her robes.

“Who are you?”

“I am Cailleach.”

Merlin didn’t know what to make of that. “Are you an Angel?” he asked. The woman laughed, and the laugh was dry and raspy. Like a death rattle. It sent Merlin’s skin crawling.

“Don’t act like you don’t remember me. We’ve been entreating after your aid in taking down the High Thrones for quite some time. Dismantling the corruption of Heaven is no easy task,” she clucked her tongue and shook her head disapprovingly. “Many an Angel has been banished from the celestial realm for the cause, you know this. Even when our Fallen brothers and sisters were told they had every right to be free to exist amongst their brethren. Lies and slander.”

Merlin shook his head, and wondered where Arthur had gone off to. “Please, l-leave me alone,” he tried. But the woman threw back her head and laughed again.

“You think _I_ am your greatest threat right now, Emrys?” she asked. Then she took another step closer, and Merlin backed up until he was against the wall, terrified as he watched woman approach him, leveling her eyes with his. He did his best not to make eye contact **;** those eyes… they were so sad. So empty. “You have been gone for so long... Emrys, you _must_ join this cause,” she rasped, and Merlin saw a set of yellowing teeth beneath the dry lips. “The spirits long to be free. Those lost souls deserve the torture they face in the pits, you must not allow them to break free. The Dorocha will terrorize the earth should you allow the veil to open.”

“What? Doro-what… I don’t understand—please let go-” Merlin didn't want to hurt the woman, but he didn't want her to continue grabbing his arm like she was, and he was prepared to throw her off if she tried attack. But she didn't attack.

“You of all people should want to help, Emrys! Were you not denied your request to use your powers for something greater than a simple messenger? You were so much more, Emrys, what happened to you?”

“Who’s Emrys?!” Merlin cried out then, frantic and frustrated and ready to call for Arthur, who had to be nearby. He wasn’t prepared to deal with this. He could only handle so much in one day. He still didn't really know who this woman was, and here she'd come wandering in and begun speaking of all these things like they were picking up from a previous conversation.

“Shhh…” the woman breathed, holding a gnarled finger to her lips, and Merlin’s mouth clamped shut.

Her eyes narrowed then.

Raising one cloaked arm, the woman called Cailleach pressed her hand to Merlin’s chest, an expression of full concentration giving way to one of shock. Merlin squirmed and struggled underneath the touch, but his feet felt like they’d been glued to the pavement.

When the focus returned to the woman’s eyes, Merlin read confusion.

“This is not a vessel,” Cailleach murmured, and stared at Merlin like she was seeing him in a brand new light. “You have not taken a vessel… I sense the angelic presence, but it is weak… subdued, perhaps. But how can that be?”

Merlin wasn’t sure what she was asking. He shook his head, but he couldn’t back away more than a few inches before his back collided with solid brick. “How can _what_ be? Who is Emrys?” he asked a second time.

She continued to stare at him, sharp fingernails digging through the rain jacket. “You are mortal. How did this happen?” The woman’s eyes were searching, flicking from Merlin’s face to his shoulders, then back again, looking mystified.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The old, somber face scowled, and eyes that spoke of death peered back into his. Merlin gave an involuntary shudder. The woman’s hands were colder than death.

“Your wings... what have they done with them?”

"My _wings_ ,” he spluttered, “What do you m-?"

"Were they torn like the other's?"

"I don't-"

"No," the woman said, sounding like she was talking more to herself than to Merlin, "they're hidden deep somewhere, I can smell it on you." She leaned into his personal space, inhaling over the junction of his shoulder and neck.

Merlin curled away instinctively. The woman unsettled him, with her grabby, wrinkled hands and face like a rotting apple.

“So the whisperings are true,” the woman murmured quietly, slowly backing away even as her gnarled hand remained curled in Merlin’s jacket. “Do you not remember, Emrys?” she implored, searching his face. It was almost kind, but something in her eyes told Merlin that there was no real kindness here. Only the desire to bring harm, to exploit. This woman – or was she even human? – was a lifeless, soulless presence. Maybe she'd had a soul, once. But now she was a shell.

Merlin needed to get out.

He needed to get out _now_.

“N-no, I really, really don’t know what you’re talking about. L-Let me go!” He struggled against the hand pressing him against the wall, but the cold woman was stronger than she looked.

“The sword and the staff together can break the Seal of the Disir,” she chanted, getting in his face. Merlin wrinkled his nose as the acrid stench of her breath finally hit; she didn’t just look like death, she reeked of it. “The Sword and the Staff. Close the veil or die and be damned. Open the Gates or the dead will be damned. Close the veil and open the Gates and all but one will walk free.” Her nails dug deeper into the flesh beneath his sleeve.

Merlin shouted, ripping his arm from the woman’s grasp.

The woman, who called herself Cailleach, hissed and took a step back, drawing herself up to full height. She might not have been pretty, but she was formidable with those soulless eyes and long cloak that looked to be woven out of cobwebs. The cowl draped around her head cast striking shadows over her face, making her appear yet more gaunt, more ancient. And, Merlin thought, she must be. Ancient. She reminded Merlin of death itself.

“If you won’t join us, then they will destroy everything you hold dear. Emrys, the veil will be torn. The dead will walk the earth, and the price will be a great one to restore the balance that already hangs so precariously. Something big is coming.”

With those final words, the woman narrowed her eyes and raised an arm up above her; as she did, the wide sleeve of her cloak fell to reveal markings etched there. One stood out to him: a word in all capital letters on her inner wrist, slashed through with pink, just like a scar. Her palm glowed, and the next moment, an eruption of azure light grew until it swallowed the woman completely.

Merlin shielded his eyes, unable to look at the light directly.

When the light faded, the cold woman was gone.

 

A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. He yelped.

“Are you hurt?”

Merlin, about to make a run for it, froze when he realized it was only Arthur. Of _course_ it was Arthur. Merlin just about melted from the relief.

“No, ‘m all right,” he managed to croak out, trying not to lean into the touch more than necessary.

Arthur sighed heavily. “Good, let’s get out of here. The sooner we reach the Hall, the sooner we can figure this out. Don’t think I’m backing down on my promise,” he assured, giving Merlin a confident nod of his head.

“I never said you were.”

 

**-^i^-**

 

What Merlin recounted of his experience with Cailleach ended up being a fairly edited version, in which he mentioned the woman’s ramblings about a torn veil, a sword and staff and the Doro-whatever they were called. Nothing about the name Emrys.

“The Dorocha.” Arthur’s expression darkened considerably.

“Who was she?” Merlin asked, unable to shake the icy feeling of Cailleach’s hand pressing through the layers of his jacket and t-shirt. Darkness. Death. _Freezing._

“Death’s right hand. Cailleach, one of the fallen Archangels,” Arthur growled, “One of high power, even after her Fall. She doesn't normally pick sides, but this must not be a normal situation." He scowled. "Of _course_ it wouldn't be.”

“Why did she fall?”

“Don’t ask.”

Merlin blinked. “All right… so if an Angel falls… does that make them bad? Or – or dark, I mean?” he asked, not sure to phrase it properly. He wasn’t sure how much good it would do to divulge any mentioning of the name ‘Emrys’ just yet. When it came to Archangels, he was beginning to wonder if anything was off limits for getting him into trouble.

With a sigh, Arthur scratched his chin and rolled his shoulders loosely. “All Fallen Angels are kicked out of Heaven for good reason. All of them broke the rules in some way, whether it was by making deals they shouldn’t have been making, causing harm to mortals, murder, or turning away from our Father in any other way.”

“So they’re evil.”

Arthur gave a half-hearted shrug. “I wouldn’t say evil… although yes, some are. They let the darkness cloud their souls, and they became lost.”

“But not all of them," Merlin tried, almost like he was _hoping_ for a yes to that.

"...Honestly? I don't know," Arthur said with another shrug, probably hoping to just leave it at that.

Merlin, being himself, wasn't going to leave it at that. "What about Angels who weren’t Archangels? Have any of them ever fallen?” It was a shot in the dark, but after what Cailleach had mentioned amongst all the gibberish about veils and swords, Merlin had a feeling that Angels of lower rank might have had it much, much worse.

“Only two of the lower Angels have ever fallen…”

“And?”

Looking from side to side, Arthur cocked his head for Merlin to follow.

Together they made their way out of the alley, which made Merlin feel loads better, getting away from the last of the lingering chill that had most certainly come from the cold woman. A fallen Archangel, Merlin now understood.

And she was one of the bad ones, he was sure of that. Even if she didn't normally take sides.

The rain was letting up. This conversation right now was the best distraction Merlin could take, grasping for anything to divert his thoughts from the events of the last hour. Had it only been an hour? He still didn’t have a watch, but apparently Arthur knew what time it was, no matter where they were.

Arthur cleared his throat, before he picked up where Merlin had left off. Puddles of water sloshed under his combat boots. Really? Combat boots?

Typical that Arthur would want to stand out from the other Archangels. He _said_ he wasn’t their boss, but they all knew better.

“Those two Angels were neither seen nor heard from again,” he said as they walked. “As far as we know, their very essence was blasted to kingdom come a thousand years ago. We don't speak of the first one, as he was so consumed by wickedness that even his name was tainted. The second one—one whose name most demons fear to mention aloud—was rumoured to have possessed powers so great that they not only rivaled the Archangels, but the Thrones.”

“And that’s… very powerful, I take it.” Merlin grimaced when one of his trainers splashed through a puddle, which turned out to be deeper than anticipated.

“Mmm…” Arthur nodded, preoccupied by something else. “Extremely. And he was a messenger Angel, of all things.”

“You knew him.”

“Never met him, actually. Not in all the thousands of years he must have been flitting in and out of the realm.” When he caught Merlin frowning, he adjusted his answer. “What? He was in a different division, I don’t know _all_ of the lower Angels by name. There are thousands of them!” he insisted, as he tried to rectify the situation. “Too many stories to keep track of. I stopped paying attention after Michael; I've got other things to worry about. And the Big Man didn’t program the names of all the Angels into our heads like he did for the deceased.” He tapped his forehead lightly. “All I know is, this one requested a place amongst the Thrones, and when they denied him, he complained.” He gave Merlin a dangerous look then. “You don’t complain to the Thrones. Not ever.”

So the Angel had been cast out because he realized his potential.

“That hardly sounds fair,” Merlin pointed out.

“Perhaps,” said Arthur, looking grim, “but he might have interfered with the balance.”

“So no one knows what happened to him?” Merlin murmured, throwing his hands into his pockets.

Another shrug, and Arthur continued to lead them back towards the park, where the other Angels were standing by, waiting for orders. The city had been marked as clear. With a nod to each man, Arthur turned from Merlin and looked straight up at the sky.

“Lights, please?” he asked, sounding bored once more, the placid mien replacing everything else.

As if on cue, all the nearby streetlamps switched on, bathing the road in a dim orange and yellow. As Merlin watched, various windows of the houses lining the street lit up, although many remained dark. Not many people would be up this late (or early, technically).

The world felt different. Merlin certainly did,too.

 

**-^i^-**

 

The lift doors sat in the middle of the road, waiting.

“I want a moment with Will," Merlin said.

Gwaine protested. “We’ve hardly any time, we’re barely managing to hold the portal open as it is--”

“Do what you have to do,” Arthur interjected. He locked eyes with Merlin, nodding. Grateful, Merlin left the others by the fence and stepped over the grass, towards the center of the park.

It was a public park, and he knew he couldn’t do much by way of marking up a patch of ground with a headstone or even a stack of rocks, as one would do in the old days for people unworthy of proper graves. But Merlin was going to do something anyway.

The earth smelled damp, fresh with the rain that had long since passed. The dirt gave beneath Merlin's trainers, soft. Kicked-up earth mingled with the fainter, metallic smell of blood, and Merlin wished he didn't have to breathe, if only so he didn't have to think about the damage done. But it wasn't just the smell, of course; it was Will's body lying broken and listless and absent one soul, waiting for him back in the dead center of the park. Buried.

It was the nausea that threatened to overwhelm Merlin, the sensation of small holes puncturing his stomach and making his insides burn like acid from the inside-out. His best friend was dead. _His best friend was dead._

Searching around, he finally returned to the place where Will rested, carrying two sticks in his hand, and a small pile of pebbles he’d collected in his jacket pockets.

With the pebbles, he made a meticulous circle just around the area where he assumed Will’s head would be, staring upwards beneath the earth and blind to the world, and lowered the sticks within the circle of pebbles to make a clumsy cross. It wouldn’t stay for long, but it was still something. It made Merlin feel a little better.

When he finally tore his gaze from the makeshift grave, Merlin lost the ability to breathe.

Encircling the small area just around the perimeter of the grave was the entire squadron on Angels, each bent down on one knee, and each with his wings out, flaring open to shield the burial site from the outside world.  

 

**-^i^-**

 

They barely had time enough to make it out of there.

“Lift’s jammed _again,”_ Gwaine groused, placing a palm over the doors. He chanted something akin to what Arthur had done on the trip down. The doors didn’t budge. "Told you we should've brought lube," he muttered. “You all feel it too, right? Something’s trying to keep us here.” Then he turned his head to glare at his spectators, all loitering like a pack of teenagers out for a smoke. “Well? A little help, maybe?”

Leon was the first to step forward, chanting in another language unrecognizable to Merlin.

Merlin wanted them all to get out safely. Even if it meant he had to stay down here, so be it. But they would all go back home – he refused to believe anything otherwise.

Lancelot stepped up next when Leon’s chanting didn’t work. “ _Fores, apertas,”_ he chanted, shutting his eyes and holding out his hands towards the doors. That language Merlin _did_ recognize. Latin.

With a groan, the doors creaked open until there was just enough space for one person at a time to walk through. "Never fails," Lancelot said, grinning. Arthur gestured to Merlin, and Merlin took it as a sign to get into the lift first.

The interior had changed dramatically since the last trip; in lieu of a luxury interior with marbled flooring, the walls and floor were metal, musty and fogged up. The rails lining the wall were rusted over. It was all wrong.

“Yep, lift’s definitely fucked up,” Gwaine said as he stepped in after Merlin, looking around. “Oi!” he called out through the doors, “I don’t think it’s going to fit all of us.”

“Oh, _bugger_ all,” someone swore.

There was no good solution to the problem. The only thing they could do was leave someone behind. Two or three, even.

Merlin heard Lancelot’s sigh from the other side of the doors. “It’s all right, Arthur,” he said, muffled a little to Merlin’s ears. Merlin didn’t like where this was headed.

“Let us stay behind. We’ll be fine. It’ll give us the chance to look for some answers down here.”

“Yeah, I know a few people down here who might know something. Can’t hurt to look for them.” Leon sounded less reassuring than Lance, but there was no other way. Arthur had no choice but to agree.

“You two are some of the best and the bravest. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Us?” Lancelot asked, a smile in his voice. “Never.”

“Catch you on the flip side, captain.”

Merlin heard Arthur snort. “You know how I feel about you calling me captain.”

“Yeah yeah, always with the humility, now can we get a _move on_ please?” Gwaine interrupted from the lift.

After another round of hasty goodbyes, the other six men squeezed into the lift, leaving Lancelot and Leon on the other side of the doors. Arthur pressed the button that said ‘Level 1,’ and the doors creaked shut.

 

**-^i^-**

 

“I don’t know how it happened, but it did. You all did well, men. The outcomes were not preferable, nor are they ever, but I think it’s safe to say we remained firm and withstanding through the thick of it. And, thanks to Merlin, we made it out of there with our lives.”

“What— me?” Merlin sputtered.

He looked from one Angel to the next, and each one’s expression was the same: kind, accepting, filled with gratitude. He didn’t even know what he’d done, but it must have been good.

“But… But Leon. Lancelot—they’re both still down there. We weren’t able to bring everybody back,” Merlin pointed out.

“Leon and Lancelot both agreed that they would be fine on their own,” Arthur said, “They’ve worked in the realm more than the rest of us, excluding Gwaine.” He cocked his head in Gwaine’s direction. “Without your presence, we doubt the demons would have ever shown themselves at all. They saw you as weak prey, took you as something important as we were guarding you, and they got distracted,” Arthur said, matter-of-fact. “As much as I hate to say it, that helped. You endured just as much as we did… if not more.”

Merlin swallowed, and his throat felt tight, like it was being constricted.

“That demon’s name was Valiant. Centuries old bugger, but he had nothing on us.” Elyan nodded in grave reassurance. The others looked at Merlin in muted sympathy.

“Except Will,” Merlin whispered. The others looked solemn.

Valiant was good and truly dead, never to return from the depths of Hell.

But it didn’t change the fact that, when it came down to it, Will still hadn't survived the encounter.

Merlin knew he wasn’t finished crying, but he’d done enough of it back in the park, over Will’s… _grave,_ to have tired himself out for now. He was just tired.

 

**-^i^-**

 

"Walk with me, Merlin."

The fragrance of the gardens calmed Merlin's grief-addled senses, and the temperature warmed his bones. Everywhere he looked, pansies, tulips, and chrysanthemums grew proudly, joined today by white roses and lilies. Sometimes, the gardens read Merlin so easily. His heart felt heavy. Even so, just being in the gardens dulled the edge that grieving gave him. At least he felt like he could breathe again.

"You're going to apologize, aren't you.”

Arthur neither confirmed nor denied it. That in itself was confirmation enough.

"Don't," Merlin said quietly, "it was no one's fault but that demon’s and the mad exorcist with his bloody gun."

"The mission was my responsibility. Will's death is on me," Arthur said. "And for that, I couldn’t ask you to forgive me."

"Arthur-"

"Allowing that sort of thing to happen-"

"Ar _thur_."

Arthur looked around. His pale blue eyes held so much sorrow, so much guilt. And knowing the reasoning behind his guilt, Merlin could only wonder at how such a creature could exist like Arthur.

He was an impossible man, thinking he could hold the world on his shoulders when he had so many others who would gladly shoulder the burden with him. Merlin would. He'd do it in a heartbeat.

"I just told you not to apologize. I don't blame you, and I never will," Merlin asserted readily, almost angry that Arthur would think for a _second_ that he was to blame. "Will's death-" his voice caught in his throat. The look on Arthur's face spurred him on to finish the thought, "Will's death was an accident. What's done is done."

Arthur slowed at that, taking that thought in stride. "You… you are a riddle, Merlin," he murmured, "A riddle and a half. Truly." And he meant it. From the look on his face, he meant it, and not in a spiteful way, either, but something more sincere. Merlin smiled, sad. But slowly, surely, he could feel the weight easing, and he knew he was getting better. Not all at once, but he would get there. He would survive- at least, he would survive as much as the dead could survive. 

"You know we'll have to go back down. Whatever caused the outage, it's still out there."

"I'm going with you," Merlin said immediately.

"And I'm guessing it's going to take a lot to talk you out of it,” Arthur muttered.

"Yep."

Arthur shook his head in disbelief, but a smile played on his lips. The head shake wasn't a 'no,' just an acknowledgment to Merlin's borderline madness. "It'll be dangerous."

"Obviously."

"You could get hurt," Arthur pointed out. "Doesn't matter that you're dead."

Merlin chuckled softly. "Something tells me you wouldn't let that happen."

It was with a fading grin that Arthur looked back at Merlin, quieter. "I hope you don't mean to put that theory into practice."

Merlin's own grin slowly went down as well; he didn't like how Arthur sounded genuinely worried. Did he really think Merlin was that much of a masochist? That he would put himself in harm’s way just to make a point? "No.” He said the word like an oath. A guarantee. “Not on purpose. Never that."

"Promise?" Arthur asked, and when Merlin caught the intensity of it, he found himself nodding a yes to Arthur's fervent, one-word request.

"I promise," he said, and in doing so he took a step forward, taking his hands out of his pockets as he stretched one out towards Arthur, extended like a challenge. A mirror of the first time he'd seen Arthur, the day he woke up dead. "I promise I won't purposely endanger myself," he said, "but that's _only_ if you let me come with you."

His hand lingered outstretched for a few seconds, before Arthur closed the rest of the distance between them, and shook hands.


End file.
